Blue Rains Make Green Trees
by dusty daisies
Summary: Castiel is the solitary artistic type who pines bitterly for the unnattainable boy next door. Also, he thinks too much. Childhood/Teen!AU. Family stuff. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

_Blue Rains Make Green Trees_

_Castiel is the solitary artistic type who pines bitterly for the unattainable boy next door. Also, he thinks too much. Childhood/Teen!AU. Slash._

_Some drifty, suburban teen angst for [my]your [writing]reading pleasure. I have a general idea, but I'll basically be making this up as I go along, just to warn you._

* * *

When Castiel was eight years old, the Winchesters moved in next door. Michael, who had taken over the role of guardian to two younger siblings, visited the new arrivals to welcome them to the neighbourhood and to invite them to church.

On his return, he explained to Castiel and Gabriel how Mrs Winchester had died, leaving her husband and two young sons behind. It had been hard for them to carry on in their old home without her, so Mr Winchester had decided on a fresh start, a change of scenery.

"_The oldest will be starting in your class after the summer, Castiel. When you talk to him, make sure to be kind and offer support. You know what it's like."_

.:.

Castiel was reading in the garden when something hit his book with a loud crack. The source of the noise was a cherry stone with the stalk still attached, which had bounced off and landed in the grass beneath his right knee. It had left a tiny reddish stain in the middle of the black and cream page.

He looked around for the source of the missile, but the garden was empty save for him and the bees buzzing gently around the flowers.

Another of the fruits, this time whole, hit him in the chest, and he let out a small cry of shock and pain. He looked up, and was surprised to find there was a boy in his tree.

They stared at each other for a while, Castiel's unblinking wariness meeting the flat, challenging glare of someone daring him to react.

"These cherries suck," the boy said, with venom.

He sounded like he blamed Castiel for this fact. Castiel found he was hurt by the hostility, and tried to think of what he might have done to warrant it. _He_ didn't make the cherries that way.

"They're inedible." He said quietly, but apparently it still carried.

The boy frowned down at him, the challenge behind his expression falling away to leave confusion. His nose scrunched up.

"They're what?"

And Castiel was reminded of school, and how all the other children looked at him with that exact expression whenever he answered a question. He didn't say much outside of lessons, because then it was more than just looks.

"Inedible. It means you're not supposed to eat them."

The boy considered the cherry he held in his hand, squashed it with his thumb against the branch he was perched on. "Well why didn't you just say that, then? And what's the point of having a cherry tree if you can't eat them? That's stupid." He kept his thumb pressed down, until there must have been nothing but red pulp left in the crevices of the bark.

Castiel seriously pondered the question. "I think it's because it looks pretty. And birds can eat them."

He flinched when the boy laughed. It was a familiar laugh; tinged with mocking. But there was no cruelty in it.

"What's your name?"

"Castiel." He said, then immediately remembered he wasn't supposed to tell strangers who he was, or even talk to them for that matter. Michael_ had_ said it didn't apply to children his own age, but at the moment this boy was reminding him more of the Cheshire Cat. He pressed his lips together.

"Cas-ti-_el? _What kind of a name is that?"

An over-tightened knot in his chest constricted, pulling steel-strength cords to straining point. Why did every new meeting have to go exactly the same way? It just meant it would end the same, and he'd have met another person who didn't want to be his friend.

"It's _my_ name!" he snapped defensively, then bit his tongue to stop himself saying any more. Whoops.

The boy didn't laugh anymore. "Okay. Whatever. I guess it's kinda cool. I'm Dean."

A rush of something unexpected loosened the knot. Nobody had referred to anything about him as 'cool' before, not even in this flippant, consoling way. But that was something else in its own right – unless Castiel was reading things wrong (which he may well be, going by his record), this boy had tried to remove the sting his words had caused by adding kinder ones. Castiel blinked widely at the emotion that was assaulting him – it was hope.

The boy – Dean – was apparently not as he seemed; this development was at odds with the impression of hostility he had first conveyed. Maybe… maybe he wouldn't be like the others. Maybe he wouldn't taunt and antagonise.

"You're book looks really boring. Why are you reading a book without pictures? That's really boring."

Or perhaps not.

"_Dean!_" A man's deep voice boomed through the house next door. "Dean? It's time to go!"

"That's my dad." Dean said, a tad unnecessarily. He spent a couple of seconds looking across at his house, swinging his legs. "We're taking Sammy – that's my brother – to sign up at kindergarten. You can meet him when we get back, if you want. He's four."

Castiel sensed something with more meaning than the words themselves pass between them – something a bit nervous, a bit hopeful, but not just from his side this time. For the first time he could remember, he felt like there was someone looking for _his _acceptance.

"Yes. I'd like that."

It was only after the brief smile, the reckless yet artful leap between the trees and then the unrestrained sprint inside which finally hid the boy from sight, when Castiel wished he'd thanked him.

Apart from accepting a drink from Michael at one point, Castiel's position remained unchanged until the rumble of Mr Winchester's car signalled their return. Voices carried around the houses, easy over the still summer air.

"Come on, Sammy, come meet the boy next door. You'll like him, he's funny."

"Not now, Dean, they'll be eating. Like we should be. Why not wait 'til tomorrow?"

"But Dad, he's waiting _now!_ I told him he could meet Sammy _when we got back!_"

"Would you 've waited all that time?"

"…no…"

"Exactly. He'll still live there in the morning…"

"Dean! Did you get the cherries?"

"You can't eat them, Sammy."

"Yes you can! You can eat cherries!"

"Not those ones, they're the wrong type."

"Oh. That's stupid."

"Yeah, I know."

Castiel listened to the front door shut, and felt a flutter of surprise. He'd remembered.

.:.

In the lead up until the new school year, Castiel lost a lot of sleep. He was petrified that once Dean met the other children he wouldn't want to be friends with him any more; that he was just playing with him at the moment for lack of anyone better or more fun.

When school did start, it was the first time he'd had an ally; someone who he could trust to take his side in the playground.

He didn't take anything for granted, though. He was determined not to ruin this friendship, so tried not to do anything that might upset Dean or go against what he wanted. Of course, he couldn't avoid conflict completely, and every single time he did something he thought had spoiled things, he was amazed when Dean was still his friend the next day or the next hour, not even mentioning whatever had split them apart, like it didn't even matter.

Castiel began to realise that usually, it didn't.

.:.

When Castiel was fifteen years old, he didn't have anyone that he would call more than an acquaintance, at school or out of it, and had to learn to cope with life without his big brother for the first time. Whenever Michael asked him if he was happy, he told him he was, because he didn't think he deserved to complain about his circumstances in relation to all the people in the world who were much worse off.

He'd been right not to take anything for granted, but it hadn't made it any less heart-wrenching when he realised it was coming to an end.


	2. Chapter 2

Uriel &co were approaching up the street.

Castiel wondered why, and whether they knew he was here. He didn't particularly want to confront them; today had been one of those days where he found it impossible to ignore the pang in his chest that he was learning to repress, and he knew this was going to make it worse. He missed Gabriel. If his brother had been with him now, he would have flicked a candy wrapper and some kind of casual insult at the group as he passed through like a shark through a shoal of fish, and Castiel would barely have to worry. Gabriel would support him without laying a hand on him, pretending he didn't pick up on how much that easy confidence meant to his little bro.

But Gabriel wasn't here, hadn't been in contact for months now, so Castiel had to deal with this on his own.

Or he could always run away like a coward.

So that's what he did, ducking around the side of the white building before anyone noticed him. He'd dropped his social face somewhere along the walk from school, and he wasn't planning on conjuring a new one for someone who'd invited themselves into his sanctuary.

The churchyard merged into the small woods on the edge of town, and he headed deeper under the canopy, making his way through crumbling, lichen coated headstones that were the rubble of a different time. They were saved from mixing with modern-day litter by Joshua, whose job description was gardener, but that didn't really cover it. Castiel had always liked it in here.

It wasn't that Uriel was cruel or bullying towards him – well, not in the obvious sense, anyway – he just wouldn't leave Castiel alone. He was convinced that because they all went to church together and were a similar age, they should be "friends." Friends with each other and nobody else, because their club was an exclusive one.

Uriel seemed to think that Castiel – and the others who refused to humour his pack mentality – should feel privileged by the attention. He couldn't get it into his head that Castiel didn't like their elitist attitude, their self-enforced isolation at school, the way they used something as personal as faith to elevate their importance above other peoples'. Uriel couldn't get it into his head that Castiel didn't like _them._

He'd rather have no friends at all than spend time with people who didn't really care about him.

And now it looked as if they were heading towards the church, where he'd just come from helping Michael set up some kind of meeting that evening. The possibility of Uriel only being here to harass Castiel made his chest clench, but he wouldn't be surprised in the least if that was the case.

There must be something about him that made him more fun to taunt than other people.

The occasional sound of a passing car faded as he got further in, becoming ensconced in the simple quiet of the trees. The light was softer in here, calmer; the orange sun glinted through the leaves on its way towards the horizon, creating flashes of warmth across his eyelids. He kept walking purposefully; there wasn't really a footpath per se, it was more just a flattened trail that took the most direct route through the trees, but he strayed from it all the same, trampling over fallen leaves with a twig cracking under his step every now and then. A bird nearby was sent fluttering off in a panic, and he paused, feeling guilty, until the wing beats had gone and the silence returned.

The act of stopping still meant he looked up from his feet, giving his brain a chance to study his surroundings and find them familiar. He stared, and tight, chilling warmth filled him up from the inside.

There was a short drop not far to his right, where the loose earth had slipped away to leave essentially a cliff face of packed mud, bare roots and startled bugs skittering out of their tunnels. Or at least, that's what it had been like when it first happened. Now the earth had hardened over time, and tufts of grass had sprouted out of its vertical surface at random. Castiel found himself on the brink without realising he'd moved. His toes teetered over the edge, and it didn't even make him dizzy now.

It must have been about here.

The sun wasn't as bright now as it had been that day, and the smell of earth was stronger from the recent rain, but it looked the same; the dropped basin clear of trees, on a lower level than the surrounding ground, and the shadowy copse on the far side, which had once promised thrills and shouts of adventure. Every detail came freely from his memories, even though he hadn't thought about it in years.

A small smile appeared on his lips when he pictured a chubby Sam Winchester, his six-year-old face lit up underneath pudgy hands that were failing to shade it from the sun. He'd echoed his big brother's impatient cries of "Jump!" hardly aware of what he was encouraging. It was alright for him; he'd been lowered from above, a safe grip on his outstretched hands until his toes reached hard-baked earth.

Castiel missed that Sam – the one that followed him and Dean around (but mostly Dean) with unbridled affection. As the youngest he'd always been the centre of attention when he was with them, so he didn't have much to be unhappy about. Except maybe the teasing, but he was always laughing again within minutes.

Castiel missed Sam.

"_Dean, you need to rescue him!"_

"_I'm not rescuing him. What am I, a knight in shining armour? He can get himself down, can't you Cas?"_

"_I… yes." It was a yes that meant no, and Dean picked up on it straight away._

"_What's up? You scared of heights?"_

"_No. I'm scared of falling."_

"_But you're _supposed_ to be falling."_

"_Don't fall, Cas!"_

_Castiel looked around, determined not to make a fool of himself. He could see an alternative way down, but it would take much longer, and would also mean admitting defeat._

"_Deeaan!"_

"_What?"_

"_Help Cas! He doesn't like it!"_

_Dean gave an exaggerated, full-body eye roll, and slouched forwards a few steps. He raised a hand, and his eyebrows rose with it._

Castiel couldn't believe this used to seem so unbearably high to him. He couldn't believe Dean used to be that small; the top of his head must have been a foot below the brink.

He breathed deeply, bunched the straps of his bag in his hands to stop the heavy books slamming into his back, and dropped off the edge. His feet hit the packed earth lightly and with grace; he barely even had to bend his knees. It was comparable to Dean's landing all those years ago, which Dean had expected Cas to be able to replicate, no problem. Castiel remembered, at that moment, hating him. He always did have an irritating habit of overestimating people, especially Castiel.

He'd wanted nothing more than to bat his helping hand away and show him he could do it himself, but he'd taken it nonetheless, frowning and unable to meet anyone's eye. The worst part was, when he was actually jumping, the hand hadn't taken any of his weight or supported him in any way, but he knew he wouldn't have been able to do it if he hadn't had that grip around his fingers. He'd been annoyed with himself.

He was still annoyed with himself. Castiel clung to that grip even now, and couldn't make himself let go. Didn't want to let go. It was pathetic of him, but it was also part of who he was. He didn't know how to suddenly change overnight.

The only trouble was, Dean didn't know. He didn't know any of it. Not anymore.

"_Dean's a knight in shining armour," Sam sing-songed. "Which means Cas is the dancer in the dress!"_

_Dean spluttered abruptly and dramatically into hysterics._

"_I'm the what?" Castiel blinked out of his scowl in surprise._

_Sam watched Dean's outburst with shining eyes, confused and hurt. "That's what always happens! The knight rescues the dancer in the dress…"_

"_S-Sahaham….Sammeehee… You mean the damsel in distress!"_

"_No I don't!" He pouted, thinking for a moment. "Oh."_

_Castiel's cheeks got warmer. He knew Sam was only trying to make a joke – one which had backfired on him – but it still made him feel uncomfortable._

"_I'm not a damsel in distress."_

_Dean looked away from ruffling his brother's hair. His eyes were swimming with joy, and his smile had that stretched look that came from laughing so hard it hurt._

_He lunged and grabbed his elbow in a steel grip. "Sure you are!" He took on a dramatic stance, one hand on his hip while the other yanked Cas to his side. Cas stumbled into him, too baffled to do anything else. "And lo! Sir Dean the Awesome did save the fair maiden…" he peered at him out of the corner of his eye, "…Castiella… from her terrible plight… Which was, er… to be eaten! Eaten alive by the evil Sam-monster!"_

"_Dean!"_

"_Which was the ugliest creature in all the land! So ugly in fact, that anyone who came within a mile of it died from its ugliness alone!"_

"_No-o! How come I was going to eat Castiella alive, then?"_

_Oh God. The name had stuck._

"_That's not important. You wore a mask or something. A big giant mask, to fit over your big giant head."_

"_People with big heads have big brains too, Dean." Sam folded his arms against his chest, buzzing with satisfaction that he'd managed to come back with something._

_Dean ignored him so he could continue his story telling; "Sir Dean hunted down the Sam-monster on his trusty black steed – the fastest stallion in all the land! So fast that you could only see a ball of dust where its legs were meant to be, you know, like roadrunner – and smote the evil thing with his shotgun…"_

"_They didn't have shotguns in the olden days," Sam sighed._

"_Yeah well, this one was magical. And Castiella the fair maiden – the fairest maiden in all the land! – thanked Sir Dean the Awesome for being so awesome…" Dean looked down at Cas, who was wedged reluctantly under his arm and trying not to trip over his own feet whenever Dean whirled him about. "…with a kiss!"_

_With a what?_

_Suddenly Castiel found himself tilted backwards at an alarming angle, having been whirled far too violently to be able to save his balance. Dean held him tight while he planted a fat one right on his lips. Castiel squeaked indignantly, eyes flying wide._

"_EEEEuuuugghhhhhhhwwwwww! Deeeeeaaaaaannn!"_

"_And then they rode away on Sir Dean the Awesome's awesome horse, and the Sam-monster was smote, and it was all happily ever after and everything…"_

"_Deeeaaaannn! You just _kissed Cas!_" Sam's face was a mask of horror, but there was laughter in his voice._

"_Don't be ridiculous, Sammy. Sir Dean the Awesome just kissed Castiella. You're confusing reality with fairytales."_

_Either they hadn't noticed or didn't care that Cas was splayed on the floor, focused on nothing in particular near his feet, his dignity spinning in fluffy tatters around his head._

By the time they'd returned to the church hours later, where Michael and Mr Winchester were waiting to give them a not-so-warm welcome, the small group's conversation was back to normal, if a bit strained due to tiredness and hunger. That had been when Michael and John were on friendlier terms; when John even trusted the younger man enough to keep an eye on his boys when he had to go out of town on business. It had been a Sunday, so Michael had taken them with him to the Sunday school where he taught. He never did discover how they managed to sneak away, but he had always blamed Dean.

Things were different after that day.

Castiel pulled out of his memories, back to the here and now of weak light and damp air. He shivered, like he really had been feeling the dappled sun again and missed its warmth. A different pang than that of long-ago friendships tugged in his chest now; one that made his heart speed up and his brow furrow in frustration.

* * *

_A/N: Chapter two uploaded super fast because I wrote this first, but felt I needed to introduce things beforehand. Yes, this Teen!AU will be dramatic and soppy (in every sense of the word) but I'm having a terrible couple of days and need some comforting, okay? Apparently that equals Weechesters, Solitary!Cas and forests for me. *hides from (reasonable) accusations of unoriginality and shmoopiness*_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you so much to you lovely folks who reviewed! I was a bit overwhelmed by the ammount of notifications I had. Wowzas. Hope you all enjoy this next_ bit_ :)_

* * *

When summer came back around, Anna came to stay.

Anna was Castiel's favourite cousin, and possibly his favourite family member apart his brothers, but don't tell them that. She hadn't only come to the area to visit though; she'd combined it with a summer music program at the local school which apparently wasn't available in her own town. She'd always had a passion for singing, and had picked up the skill of various wind instruments as she got older. That was what she was good at; what she had an affinity for. Castiel loved to listen to her play.

She tried to persuade him to come along too, feeling guilty for promising to spend the summer with him and then vanishing somewhere else for a lot of it. The only instrument Castiel could play was the piano, and he was alright at it, but not as good as if he'd started at a younger age. He only did it for his own enjoyment and gratification, being the kind who preferred to listen to music rather than play it, and wasn't sure he'd be able to perform in front of other people. Also, what was the point of summer vacation if he couldn't use it to escape the institution that caused him daily distress the rest of the year round?

.:.

The deep, guttural rumble of an engine made the entire street hum with pleasure. Castiel felt it two stories up in his bedroom. He lifted his head. _John must be back, _was his reflex thought. The clock said it was almost ten though, unusually late even for a late shift at the garage.

He hadn't realised what time it was. He must have been sat here sketching for hours waiting for Anna to get home. Anna who'd called to tell him she might be a bit late and not to sit around waiting for her all evening. Huh.

The engine had cut, but the silence hadn't been filled with the usual screeching groan of the Impala's doors. His curiosity peaked, Castiel slid out from behind his desk and crept over to peer around the blind, as if his footsteps might be heard from outside and give him away. He was confused to see that the car was parked on the road, instead of its usual place on the Winchester's drive, even though there didn't seem to be anything obstructing it. And it wasn't on the stretch of road directly in front of their drive either; it was further forwards, giving Castiel a perfect view.

A perfect view of Anna kissing Dean in the front seat.

Those cakes all the old ladies kept forcing on him at the bake sale earlier churned in Castiel's stomach, and he suddenly desperately needed the support of the window sill to keep him on his feet.

They broke apart, smiled at each other, exchanged words. Anna leaned in for one last peck on the lips and then slid out of the passenger side, turning briefly to give a coy wave over her shoulder. Castiel could see her face when Dean couldn't; he saw the brief flash of unrestrained joy, the lip bitten in excitement, even when the rest of her body language stayed composed. Dean watched her, a smirk in place, until Castiel heard the front door shut underneath his feet. That's when Dean lit up, his smile losing its control now. He geared the car into reverse and spun the wheel with the heel of his hand, gliding its bulk expertly back into next door's drive.

Castiel didn't know what Dean did after that; whether he sauntered into his house looking pleased with himself, glanced back across the fence, punched the air… Castiel didn't know, because he'd turned away from the window with weak knees, dropped his hands to his mattress, and vomited all those nice cakes onto his bed.

.:.

Castiel knew that Dean couldn't pick a favourite song, but it would always be something by Led Zeppelin if he was put on the spot. Castiel knew what Dean sounded like when he sang any of those songs whilst working on his dad's car, when he was drunk, when he had his window open on a still day. He knew Dean's favourite flavour of most foodstuffs; knew that he put his brother's happiness before his own; that he liked climbing things but was terrified of being totally airborne. He knew that his eyes turned poison green after he'd been crying, and what his mouth tasted like. He also knew that Dean had had a lot of girlfriends.

Castiel and Anna had always been partial to the same things.

.:.

Dean had apparently joined the summer music course on a whim because he'd started talking to Anna across their front drives and found out that's where she'd be spending a lot of time. So he'd voluntarily gone to school. During summer break. Just to be nearer Anna.

After the initial shock Castiel tried his best to push the raging envy deep down as far as it would go. What did he have to feel so personally betrayed about, anyway? It was nothing to do with him. He didn't begrudge them. His emotions were being ridiculous, acting like they had a right to lament some kind of claim on Dean. He hadn't even spoken to him in years.

But if Anna's post-date glow was accidentally dampened when she came straight to Castiel's room to tell him about it, and he didn't feel the least bit guilty about the state she found him in… Well. Nobody would know.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: Wow. I'm totally blown away by the response I've gotten for this fic in such a short time! Here is a mass thank you to everyone who has reviewed – you all get one of the bake sale cakes from the last chapter, so take your pick. But don't throw up afterwards._

* * *

Castiel still spent time with Anna in the same way, and she was still his third favourite family member, but sometimes he'd find himself looking at her in a way he never would have before. Jealously.

For the next two years Castiel avoided Dean whenever he could, a lot more determinedly and purposefully than he had previously, but he never consciously connected it to that summer fling.

A week after Castiel's eighteenth birthday, things changed again.

.:.

There were three trees at the end of the garden. They weren't _that _big, but they were big enough for a young Castiel to have wondered how all their roots fitted under the lawn; somehow they must weave and wind around each other, sharing the nutrients and moisture in the earth. Of course, if he'd thought about it in depth, he would have appreciated that just because the plot of land belonging to one household was boxed in by a fence, it didn't mean the same rules applied underground. And then he would have had to factor in the trees from next door's gardens as well. But that never even entered his head.

The Winchester's garden contained a tree that was taller than the others; so tall that when it was in leaf the top-most branches could be seen from the front of the house, over the roof. It was also the nearest to the building, so made it the perfect perch from which to spy into John Winchester's bedroom, if you so wished.

It made you wonder if the man had planned in advance and picked that room for himself, to prevent any rebellious teenagers using the tree as an escape route.

On one particular afternoon, a day in early October, Castiel had been so absorbed in the book he was reading that he failed to notice the sudden torrential downpour outside the window until it was far too late. Michael's running shoes that were drying on the line would be well and truly soaked by now.

He rushed to put his own shoes on anyway, not bothering with the laces so he almost killed himself on his way out the back door, just managing to catch himself and avoid bashing his skull in on the patio. At the sight of the dripping footwear he let out a huff of exasperation. They'd been drying all day, making it through the entire time Castiel was at school without any disasters, and had been almost ready to be brought inside. Michael had a charity run tomorrow; that had been the point of him cleaning them. He'd asked Castiel to bring them in when he got home, but Castiel had – foolishly, he could now see – thought they might dry a bit more if he left them longer.

The laces were tied together so they could be slung over the line, and Castiel reached up and unhooked them. Nothing to be done now.

He turned, heading back to the door (which he now noticed he'd left open to let the rain in) when he caught movement of an indefinite shape out of the corner of his eye, high in the tree behind the Winchester's house. He squinted through the rain to spy a figure, inching its way on hands and knees along the bare branch that extended towards the window.

"HEY!"

The figure stopped, looked around for the source of the noise.

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?"

The figure traced the second shout with more luck, peering back over its shoulder until it spotted Castiel staring up from the other side of the fence. The figure was Dean.

Shit.

He called something back, but Castiel missed it, partially due to the ceaseless roar of the rain, and partially due to the panic that had momentarily blanked his mind.

Dean tried to mime something about the window that included some kind of twisty hand thrust which Castiel couldn't begin to fathom the meaning of. The mime stopped abruptly when Dean tipped a bit too far to the left and he had to grab the branch again. Castiel's stomach plummeted. It was suddenly impossible to ignore how slippery the bark must be.

"Just… get down!" _Before you kill yourself._ He didn't fancy having to hold his spine together until the ambulance arrived.

Dean spared the window ahead of him one last longing glance, but came to the more sensible conclusion in the end. His head dipped back in front of his shoulder, hints of his face only visible under his arm once he started sliding backwards, his hair in slick spikes in front of his forehead.

Castiel just stood and watched through a fringe of raindrops.

The descent finished with a neat drop into the sodden grass. Dean shot him a roguish grin, obviously proud of the easy motion. Castiel scowled and pretended his heart hadn't skipped a beat.

"I lost my key. And the spare's inside the house."

So he just thought he's risk disfiguring, brain-damaging injury? "You're insane."

Dean shrugged, an automatic, impersonal smile fixed to his lips. Castiel was just a next door neighbour, someone he'd played with once as a child. They didn't know each other any more. Castiel imagined Dean looked that way at people on supermarket checkouts.

"My dad's out of town and Sammy's… at his friend's." Something in his voice suggested that he'd called Sam already and Sam had refused to come home just to let his big brother in. "Um…" He glanced behind Castiel, and Castiel tensed up even worse. "Don't suppose… I could come in and dry off? Just until, er…"

_No. Absolutely not. No._

"Yes."

_Damn it._

"Cool. Thanks. Er…" He looked down at the chest-high fence between them, taking stock of its proportions. When he jumped from the top of it, a shower of droplets scattered off the surface of his clothes, creating a kind of halo within the falling rain. His boots landed with a squelch right in front of Castiel, and Castiel didn't move an inch – he was seized by the proximity, and suddenly wanted to make it last as long as possible, in case he never got another chance to be this close.

Dean's eyes widened, not quite an eyebrow raise, and a hand came to rub awkwardly at the back of his neck. "Are we gonna…" He pointed past him. "Okay… I see we're not moving…" There was a pause, followed by a series of facial expressions which clearly ended with_ 'Screw this…' _and he brushed past him.

And then he was _going inside the house._ Castiel snapped to attention and hurried after him, scowl deepening as he went. This was in no way a welcome development, he told himself.

Dean was crouched near the door untying his boots; his jeans were smudged with tree moss and he'd left streaks of slimy water on the kitchen lino. "So did you think I was robbing the place or something?"

Castiel paused in the doorway, then turned so he could shut out the rain. It still fell against the window with a perpetual drumming sound. "That was the most obvious assessment of the scene."

He couldn't be in here. What if Michael came home?

"Huh. Sorry 'bout that. What would you have done if I was? Nunchucked me out the tree?" He nodded at the shoes dangling from Castiel's fist by their joined laces, under which a small puddle was growing. He seemed amused by his own idea.

"I don't know. What would you have done if you'd slipped and broken your spine?"

Dean straightened up smoothly and gave him a crazy person look. "Touché." He kicked his boots to the side with a dull clumping noise.

There were an awkward few moments, mainly because Castiel couldn't stop himself staring. It must have been years since he'd been alone with the object of this pitiless (or was it piti_ful_?) adoration he couldn't shake himself out of. He couldn't remember being so close, and having Dean's attention really focused on _him_, not just a brush in the corridor where he didn't even look to see who he'd nearly walked into.

He was inside his house. There was no one else here.

Dean shrugged off his jacket next; that damned leather jacket that Castiel had never touched, never grabbed by the collar in a frenzy of lust...

"What shall I…?"

Castiel took it from him, their fingers millimetres from touching. The leather was softer than he'd imagined. He hung it over the back of a chair in the kitchen and headed for the stairs.

"I'll get you a towel."

.:.

Fifteen minutes later they were sat in front of the TV, because Castiel had no idea what else to do with him. The room was silent apart from the dialogue of the fictional staff in the hospital drama they seemed to be watching. Castiel didn't know what they were saying; he wasn't listening.

Dean's hair was fluffy from being rubbed with a towel, and he'd removed another layer so he was only wearing a damp grey t-shirt. His socks were floppy at the toes and stained with mud along the bottom where he'd tracked through the puddles in the kitchen.

They both sat on one sofa: Dean slouched with an elbow on the arm rest to support his head, and was focused on the screen; Castiel slumped back in the big cushions, hands clasped near his knees, and was peering sideways. He was trying to stop imagining what it would taste like to trail kisses across the soft-looking skin under Dean's ear, down his throat. The fabric of his t-shirt was clingy and Castiel bet his skin was still cold to the touch; he immediately imagined what it would feel like to heat it up with his own.

Something must be happening on the TV, because it looked like Dean's breathing was shallower than usual. After a moment he swallowed, a silent bob of his Adam's apple, then cleared his throat; "So, you gonna offer me a drink?"

Castiel blinked, blushed (really), and glanced away, when the flecked green eyes he'd been studying earlier were suddenly focused on him. He chastised himself – offering a beverage was the first step when entertaining guests. Even guests that had invited themselves in.

"What would you like?"

"I dunno. Whatever you've got. Something hot?"

He could only offer tea, because Michael didn't drink coffee. Dean followed him into the kitchen and watched while he made it; Castiel suspected this was directly responsible for him chipping a mug and almost scolding himself with boiling water.

"You're pretty clumsy, you know that?"

_Thank you so much for pointing out the obvious. _"I'm not usually."

"Oh. Am I putting you off?"

"Yes."

There were a few moments with only the chink of a spoon on ceramic.

Did he want to come off so unfriendly? He hadn't meant to. He couldn't seem to help it.

"I thought it would be rude to just sit and watch your TV while you waited on me…" Another pause. "Sam shouldn't be too late getting home. He's at his friend Andy's doing homework… or planning to take over the world…"

"Here." Castiel put one of the mugs in his hand. Dean's fingertips brushed the back of his knuckles and made his throat close up.

"So… How's…" Dean began. Castiel felt like telling him not to bother. "Are, er… you in contact with Gabriel much?" His face twisted into a grimace as he realised that was possibly the worst conversation starter he could have come out with. "Er. I heard about him and Michael falling out..."

Castiel chose to ignore the silent _"It must have been hard" _and focused on answering his question; "Not really. He sends a postcard sometimes." He indicated the pin board in the corner, covered with a sparse display of landscapes and landmarks from around the world. The crude ones were kept out of sight in a drawer.

"Wow. He gets around a lot."

"The last one was from Monte Carlo." That had been five weeks ago. But at least he let them know he was alive, enjoying himself. Selfish bastard.

Dean laughed, a sharp peal of surprise.

Oh. He'd said that out loud.

"Sorry. Shouldn't laugh…"

Castiel searched for something to say in return, to distract from the urge to grin that had appeared out of the blue; he didn't want to give away any emotion that would make things too personal. _How are you? _seemed just that, and seeing as they were on the subject of brothers; "How's Sam?"

"He's good, I guess. He's grown. Practically up to my shoulder now. Puberty's made him an annoying little bitch."

Castiel frowned in disapproval without realising he was doing it. "You're proud of him though." Dean's words may have come across as malicious, but it was impossible to mistake the affection there; it was still the same.

Dean looked up at him properly. A quarter-smile tugged at his lips unsurely, and his eyes narrowed. The look said _"I'd forgotten that you know me." _

It left Castiel elated and inexplicably sad at the same time.

Dean was the first to break eye contact. "Can I use your bathroom?"

"Of course."

"…right…"

He left his full mug on the worktop behind him and disappeared through into the hall. Castiel listened to the footsteps climbing the stairs before letting his careful composure slide away.

_Dean Winchester was in his house. _Well, obviously it wasn't the first time he'd been here, but it had been so long, and the time before it had been such a…

It was odd, so …askew_. _It felt like he was dreaming, but at the same time like some distant reality was starting up again. He knew he was absolutely overreacting, having to lean back against the worktop and blink at the floor while he tried to catch his breath, but when had his emotions ever done what he wanted them to? If they ever did, he wouldn't feel the way he did every time he thought about the boy who_ was upstairs right now and nobody else was here and nobody knew he was here and it was just the two of them. _

Stop.

Deep breath.

This was horrible. He really hoped he left before Castiel had the chance to make a fool of himself.

Michael's shoes were still leaking away in their place hooked on the end of the heater; Castiel had barely taken any notice of what he was doing when he'd put them there, he'd been a bit distracted by the Dean in the room. He should probably do something about the puddle that had spread out from that corner of the room, so he fetched a dish towel and did his best to mop it up, then dropped the shoes in the sink. Michael would not be impressed.

As he returned to his leaning spot he passed the chair where Dean's jacket was draped and something stopped him, made him look at it. Some of the wetness had evaporated by now, and some had gathered into little rivulets which trickled and dripped to the floor. It was still soft under his fingers, especially in the places that rubbed and moved with the wearer, but the tips of the collar were shiny and stiff. Castiel wondered what it would feel like to wear. He imagined it would instil confidence; that the bulk of the shoulders would be countered by the lightness and lift of the collar. You wouldn't really be able to do anything _but _swagger…

Castiel would look ridiculous.

He returned to his spot near the window and drank his tea.

.:.

Another fifteen minutes later, he reached a point in his fretting where he had to know why Dean had been gone so long. He found him in his bedroom.

"Oh, er. Hi. I saw the paper through the door and got… curious…"

Castiel liked to draw sometimes. He'd developed a habit when he was young that meant whenever he finished a drawing he was quite proud of, he'd stick it to the wall above his desk. Over the years the sheets of paper had fanned out across the white paint, layering up on top of each other like feathers. He never had been very good at keeping things tidy.

"You've gotten better…" Dean said. His gaze caught on a flame of red hair, one of the few hints of colour, and his face grew fond in a forgotten way that made Castiel want to rip the picture up.

He wondered how long Dean had been stood here, and whether he'd noticed that there were more than a few sketches of him. Castiel's fists squeezed the lining of his pockets, suddenly needing something to hold on to. He tried to keep his face neutral when Dean stepped forward to lift a sheet that was partially obscuring one of the older drawings – from a time when grass was always green and water was always blue. An armoured knight riding an awkwardly proportioned black horse.

That insufferable confidence was still there, then. Why did he think he could just come in here – into Castiel's private haven – to look at and touch whatever he wanted? They were practically strangers; didn't he have _any_ sensitivity when it came to boundaries?

Castiel might have challenged him on it (or at least that's what he pretended afterwards) but right at that moment the front door clattered open, and he froze to the spot in split-second panic.

Michael's exasperated tone drifted up the stairs; "…_never _turns any lights on…" There was a snap and the landing was illuminated; all the grey, rainy shadows banished by warm yellow. "Castiel! I'm home! With groceries!"

Dean looked at him, eyebrows shooting skywards when he saw the look of terror on his face. "_Stay here_." Castiel hissed, and his voice came out unexpectedly commanding. He pulled the door shut and raced down the stairs, getting there just in time to stop Michael from entering the kitchen.

"Hello."

"What- Cas- You're in the way…"

"I'll take those."

There were a few moments of rustling where Michael didn't have much choice but to hand the bags over.

He gave his brother a very confused look. "I'll go get the rest then…"

Almost as soon as he turned around, Castiel dumped the shopping on the side and snatched up Dean's discarded jacket and boots. He was back up the stairs and snatching Dean himself in no time.

"Hey! What the-?"

"Michael. He can't know you're here. You have to leave."

"What- Why?" They reached the kitchen, but Castiel didn't slow down as they neared the back door into the garden. "Hold on, let me put my boots on first!" Dean's voice bubbled with restrained laughter. Castiel failed to see the funny side.

He pulled to a stop reluctantly. "You're feet are already wet." Or damp at least.

The clunk of the car locking system carried over the rain, through the open front door and down the hallway; Michael was on his way back. Castiel's eyes grew even wider. He opened the back door with one hand and tugged on Dean's wrist with the other, trying to force him out into the fading light of the evening, but Dean was putting up a fight.

"_Cas!_"

And just like that, he stopped.

Alright. If he wouldn't go outside…Castiel span frantically, searching. _He wouldn't fit in one of the cupboards... _He spotted the door under the stairs, but Michael was already back inside the house; once he'd closed the front door behind him he'd be coming right past it.

_CrapcrapCRAP!_

The only place they could go was the living room. He pushed Dean ahead of him, too panicked to think about how much he was manhandling him, and how amused Dean seemed to be by the whole thing.

Michael shuffled past with the last lot of groceries; Castiel waited until he was in the kitchen before darting out of the other living room entrance behind his back, across the narrow hallway to the door under the stairs.

"_What the fuck is going on?_" Dean hissed when he found himself shoved into the space at the top of the basement steps. His amusement appeared to have diminished.

"Stay quiet. _Please._" Castiel let loose his emotions through his expression; tried to convey the full urgency of the situation, because it _was _urgent. Dean frowned but stopped protesting. He hugged his jacket and boots to his chest as the strip of light from the hallway narrowed until it was shut out completely.

"Castiel?" Michael called from the kitchen, probably wondering where he'd disappeared to.

"I'm here."

"What's this doing here?" He was frowning at the extra cup of tea, the tired shadows under his eyes clear in the artificial light from overhead.

"Oh. That's for you."

His frown slackened. "You must be psychic. Thank you." He smiled lightly and turned to put something in the fridge. His attention caught on the sink. "Are those my shoes?"


	5. Chapter 5

"_Why are we in here?"_

"_I thought you said you'd get in trouble if Michael knew I was over "without supervision"?"_

"_Yes. But why am I hiding with you?"_

"_I dunno. It's your wardrobe."_

_There was movement downstairs. "Gabriel! Castiel! I'm home!"_

"_He's going to be even more suspicious if he can't find me. I'm _supposed_ to be here."_

"_Whoa-oh!"_

_There was a shuffle-thud and a hand grabbed Cas by the side of his t-shirt, yanking him off balance. _

"_Jesus Christ, what is all this crap?"_

"_They're clothes! Like you said, we're in a wardrobe."_

"_Which is where you're supposed to _hang things, _Cas…"_

_From the landing: "Gabriel?"_

"_Dean, I really think it would make more sense if I went to speak to him…"_

"_Give me your hand."_

"_What? Why?"_

"_Because my foot is stuck!"_

_Castiel lent himself as a support while Dean extricated himself from the built-up debris of clean laundry, old shoes that didn't fit and an empty hold-all. Dean's tumble had managed to send it all flying, so the only clear piece of floor he could move to stand in was the space Castiel was already occupying._

"_Erk!"_

"_Dean!"_

"_Sorry…"_

_Now he was blocking the door._

"_Just… If you let me out…"_

"_SHH-shh!"_

"_D-Mmphmm!"_

"_Are you up here? Cas?" Michael was framed in his bedroom doorway. They watched through the gap in the sliding door as he took a couple of steps inside, performed a visual sweep, and then left again._

_Cas and Dean stayed quiet; the only sound was the whoosh of breath they were trying to keep as shallow as possible. Dean removed his hand from Castiel's mouth once he thought it was safe._

"_See? He just thinks Gabe's taken you off somewhere."_

_They listened to him go back downstairs. Dean leant forwards to peer through the opening; the stripe of light across his face made his eye look like green glass._

"_And what am I supposed to do now? Stay in here until Gabriel gets home and then sneak down before Michael sees that he's alone?"_

"_Yeah. Why not?"_

"_Dean."_

"_Okay okay… Stop pouting at me."_

"_How do you know if I'm pouting?"_

"_I can hear you."_

"_It's highly unlikely that you are able to pick up on the subtle nuances of sound that indicate when I am pursing my lips in an irritated manner."_

"_Cas."_

"_Dean."_

_There was a buzzing silence while they glared at the place where they assumed each other to be. But Castiel certainly couldn't _hear_ the glaring._

_Then there was a shift and a stumble, something stubbed against Castiel's toes, and the darkness became more absolute. Warm softness left a smudge in the corner of his mouth._

"_There. Now I know for sure you're pouting."_

_Castiel stared at the blackness in front of him. Had he just…? Dean had just… Kissed him._

_But he wasn't supposed to do that. Not to Castiel_. _Dean liked Pamela; she was who he was supposed to kiss. Castiel frowned; he was getting that familiar feeling of being the butt of a joke he didn't understand. "Why did you do that?"_

_There was a rustle; Dean shrugging. "Because." He couldn't step back any further without tripping over the clothes. "You're supposed to_ like _getting kissed, Cas."_

_Castiel bristled. He didn't _dis_like it. He just hadn't had much time to know what was going on. And Dean wasn't supposed to be kissing him. It had just been a joke; to make Castiel lose his footing in their small argument; to make him feel stupid because he didn't know anything about kissing. Once again he'd had one stolen from him, but this time it felt different. It wasn't just a bit of silliness to make Sam laugh; it had been done to hurt him, and it made him scowl._

_He suddenly startled, tensed up against the wall behind him when a hand cupped his cheek. This time Dean had a better idea of where his mouth was in the dark, so he managed to press his lips to the centre of Castiel's, instead of overlapping one corner. _

_Castiel grabbed the wrist near his chin, inhaled sharply in what would have been a gasp if his mouth was free. It was a few moments before he realised that if he didn't start breathing again soon with his heart beating this fast, he would quickly be suffering from oxygen deprivation._

_Dean kept it up for much longer than before, moving his lips so that he was _properly kissing him._ Castiel's fingertips on his wrist became slick as his palms prickled with nervous sweat. He didn't know what to do. By the time he decided to try doing _something, _the pressure was lessening and Dean was pulling away. It was a last second, knee-jerk reaction when Castiel shot forwards to reseal the gap between them, and he could tell Dean hadn't been expecting it. _

_It was a moment of slippery lips slotting together, parted on one side with surprise, and on the other with desperate clumsiness. Dean quickly recovered enough to push back, moulding their lips deeper together._

_And they both knew it was different this time._

_Castiel's face was on fire when he let go of Dean's wrist, leaving a handprint of tingling heat on the skin there. He knew this, because Dean's hand left the same sensation when he let go of Castiel's cheek; the high temperature of his face quickly dried the lingering residue to leave a patch hotter and tighter than the rest. Castiel reached up to touch it himself, and then moved on to his lips, which were wet with Dean's saliva. _

_Dean swallowed loudly. "I was just…" He cleared his throat stiffly, like the act of it didn't help at all. His voice still cracked when he spoke again. "Now you can say you've been kissed…"_

_Oh._

"_Why would I need to say I'd been kissed?"_

"_Because. Everyone wants to have been kissed, Cas."_

.:.

Castiel wished he was able to say he'd never been kissed in his life. Not once.

He'd wear it like a badge of honour, because it would mean he wasn't prepared to flippantly toy with people's emotions without being properly invested in them. It would mean he didn't go around kissing people because he thought he was doing them a favour, when he had no intention of doing anything of the sort ever again. When he had no intention of staying with them.

Hopefully it would mean he was yet to meet the person he would fall in love with. Castiel knew he was a hopeless romantic, and that knowledge only made him feel more hopeless.

* * *

_A/N: And lo, another portion is revealed. I'm feeling the pressure you know guys, but I'm just gonna keep writing it the same and hope it's not too disappointing…_

_To Mayab – Sorry if you were expecting something more in depth, but their only young and rather startled, bless 'em. Well done for picking up on my amazingly subtle hinting :D_


	6. Chapter 6

Dean was sat on top of the old washing machine, jacket and boots back on and looking severely pissed off. Castiel approached him sheepishly.

"What the hell, Cas? It's fucking _cold _down here."

"I… Sorry. I had to wait until Michael was distracted." And that had taken a while. Castiel had had to run through the usual "_And how was your day?" _conversation whilst battling with the constant loop in his head of _Dean Winchester is in the basement. Dean Winchester is in the basement. Dean Winchester. Is in the basement. Right now._

Dean huffed, jumping down with a heavy swish of leather.

Castiel was actually quite surprised he was still here; he wondered whether he'd attempted to escape out of the padlocked cellar hatch or jammed window (of course he would have). Where would he have gone after that, though? To have another go at climbing the tree? It wasn't like he'd acquired a key in the time he'd been here, but maybe Sam would have returned by now.

"Aren't you old enough to decide for yourself who to bring home?" Dean muttered, brushing cobwebs off his sleeve. The question caught Castiel off-guard. He scowled, suddenly wishing Dean _had_ managed to escape without him.

"Not when it's you."

Dean blinked. Castiel blinked.

That wasn't what he'd meant to say.

"What does that mean?"

A lot. Everything.

"Nothing."

* * *

_Castiel had never been the sort of child who cried, especially when it came to his own unhappiness; he was more likely to hide it away, believe he had no right to show feelings of injustice about his own emotions. This had been something Michael had worried about while his brother was growing up, and even more so after a brief interaction that made him realise where this low self-worth stemmed from. Their mother had died giving birth to her third son – she had been in her forties and it was an unplanned, difficult pregnancy – and so Castiel was the only one of them not to remember her. One day he'd let slip (and Michael suspected that it was without realising) that he felt like he'd stolen her life, and he didn't want to seem ungrateful._

_So if he ever felt wronged, instead of talking it out like he should, he'd push it down until it turned bitter._

_Castiel carried this tendency into his teens, so it was with dry eyes and a glum mouth that Father Matthew found him in one of his pews, wrapped up in an old tan coat that was far too big for him. The preacher slid in next to him, letting him become comfortable with his presence before coaxing the problem out into the light._

_It was tentatively revealed – via many theological and philosophical questions, which Father Matthew had been rather taken aback by, coming from one so young – that Castiel had been finding middle school worse recently than he'd ever dared to imagine. He'd never dared to imagine it without Dean, you see, in case he tempted fate._

_Father Matthew asked who Dean was._

_Dean was Castiel's friend, but they had been spending less and less time together over the past few months, until it had reached the point where they barely spoke at all._

_The big turning point had come one day after school, when Castiel had stood waiting for Dean to walk home with like he always did, and Dean had come to meet him with some other friends in tow. They were going into town to 'hang out' – one of the boys had shiftily pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket to indicate the kind of thing that phrase incorporated. _

_Castiel didn't want to go, didn't want to spend time with people who he didn't like and who didn't know him, so Dean had told him fine. He should have known. Castiel never wanted to do _anything.

_That had been the only time during the conversation that Father Matthew had thought some tears might escape. He went on to ask him why he thought they'd drifted apart, and Castiel had explained that Dean's father didn't get along with Michael, so neither of them liked the pair being friends. That had put a strain on things, because it had grown less and less friendly when Dean and Castiel had visited each other's houses._

_That wasn't the whole story, however._

_Dean was… Castiel thought that Dean was…_

_The reason Castiel never wanted to _do anything _was because he was happy just being with Dean. He could be himself with Dean. When he was with him he _wasn't_ always the one that the jokes and pranks were based around whether he knew it or not; he wasn't expected to speak in the same way as everyone else. When he was with Dean, he could relax._

_Dean was beautiful. But he'd been different recently, and Castiel was afraid he was changing for good. _

_Father Matthew was struck by something in his face, in the tone of his voice, and became worried. He pressed the matter until Castiel let slip about the last time Dean had been at his house – about the kiss – and his fears were proven accurate. So he performed what he believed to be his moral duty and explained to the misguided boy the rules of love. He told him how it wasn't a sin for two boys to kiss each other, but it _was _a sin to give in to the carnal pleasures of the flesh, and because the feelings between two people of the same sex couldn't be anything but, that made what he'd done wrong in the eyes of the Lord. Two people of the same sex were not able to love each other in the same way as a man and a woman could, because no life could be created from that love._

_Castiel seemed confused by this logic, but Father Matthew had kept saying the same thing in lots of different ways, and eventually he'd accepted it. The boy had made it clear he understood that kind of behaviour to be wrong when it was between two boys, or two girls, only because it wasn't _love. _Father Matthew felt proud that he may have just saved a soul from a fate of damnation._

_Not long afterwards, Castiel would look back on this and realise it wasn't a coincidence that Michael had just returned from a meeting at the church when he expressly forbade him to continue being friends with Dean Winchester._

_He'd also look back on the kindly Father's advice, and smile. He knew one of the points the man had made to be erroneous, which invalidated everything else he'd said. Because if what he felt for Dean wasn't love, then Castiel would happily eat his own shoe._

* * *

Dean was studying his face.

"It didn't sound like nothing."

Castiel tried to pretend it had just been some kind of jibe – although it didn't make sense as one – and turned away, fumbling with the key to let him out.

"Hold on. Does your brother _still _hate me?"

"Michael has never hated you."

Castiel understood more than he used to, about the pressure his brother felt, having to be a father before he was supposed to, when he'd still needed his own to look after him. He didn't have to act the parent as much now that Castiel was older, but that wasn't the kind of thinking that just went away overnight. He still felt responsible for how his little brother turned out, and for his happiness. He'd brought Castiel up; the least Castiel could do was his best to be the person his brother had tried to make him. He owed him that.

"Although I don't think he'd be thrilled to find you in his house." _Especially with me, alone. _"It would make him… uncomfortable."

And Castiel tolerated Michael's beliefs – his fears and prejudices – because of this pressure he knew he had to deal with. And because he was his family, and families forgive each other. Someone could only possess so much strength, after all, before being found wanting in another respect.

Castiel climbed the steep wooden steps so he could unlock the hatch. This way out carried less risk of discovery.

"Not worried Michael'll see me out the window and open fire?"

"Open fire?"

"Never mind…"

Dean was standing very close to the foot of the steps when Cas reached the ground again, and he had to force himself not to tense up in shock. "Michael's in the shower," he mumbled, and took the opportunity to study Dean's freckles up close. His face had changed shape over the years; thinned out and become more defined. But he was still unspeakably pretty. And very aware of the fact.

"Guess that's okay then…" Dean sidestepped past him onto the stairs, pushing up with both hands to open the flaps. Flecks of rain twirled their way inside, making a soft pattering sound on his jacket. He looked back; Castiel had to squint to see his face against the grey outdoors. "It was nice seeing ya, Cas. Even if you did stash me in your basement."

"I wouldn't have chosen-" Dean bent down enough to be able to give him one of those funny fist-bumps on the side of his chin, effectively cutting off his defence.

Because Castiel couldn't really see properly, due to the difference in light outside and the rain getting in his eyes, it was all a bit odd and confusing, and he barely had a chance to register the back of fingers stroking up his cheek before they'd lifted away again.

"I'm kidding, Cas."

He tried not to let on that Dean's touch had had any more effect on him than it should have; obviously his hand had just slipped as he was standing up straight, it would be awkward if Castiel chose the meaningless moment to turn… gooey.

"Maybe I should return the favour sometime, show you what it's like being trapped underground for half an hour…" Dean's tone teased with a hint of real annoyance, and Castiel's first flash of embarrassment at his actions prickled the hairs at the nape of his neck.

The statement really didn't need an answer; he could have just narrowed his eyes or tried to defend himself again, maybe even smirked… But instead, Castiel said possibly the worst thing he could have said in current company, without a warning even to himself before it blurted confidently out of his mouth.

A subject which was never supposed to be dug up – _ever –_jumped of it's own accord out of its grave, where it had rested for the past five years somewhere deep inside his chest. "Was it worse than being trapped in a wardrobe?"

There you go. See?

But apparently Dean didn't.

"Yeah, I guess so..." And he didn't get it. He frowned a little '_Dude is crazy'_ frown, obviously wondering why he'd chosen to compare it to that. "At least then I could escape to Narnia or something…" He turned and finished climbing up and out onto ground level. "Thanks for the tea. I'll remember my keys next time."

And then he was gone, disappearing with one last half-intentional smile as he closed the wooden doors of the hatch behind him.

He'd forgotten.

All of the reasons why Castiel shouldn't have brought _it_ up suddenly flipped to the total opposite of what they had been.

He'd expected it to be mortifying, awkward; Dean would have gotten uncomfortable when he caught the reference, and would have tried to brush it off and pretend he hadn't noticed. But it would have been an awkward moment that was _shared_; only the two of them would get it, because it was their secret – something that connected them. Even crippling embarrassment would have been better than the swelling, distant loneliness that was left instead.

It _wasn't_something of theirs; it was only Castiel's. Something that he couldn't let go of. This knowledge deflated all the nervous tension that he'd retained from being near Dean, near enough to touch him if he'd dared. He felt like a thread that had been holding him up for the past few years had just been severed.

.:.

It was much later when he found the flannel shirt draped over a chair in the living room, blending into the dull blue of the upholstery and making it hard to spot. The discovery only brought dread, because it meant he'd have to actively approach Dean to give it back to him. He threw it on top of a stack of books in his room, and that's where it stayed for the next few days, waiting until he pulled himself together.

Even though it was pushed down so deep he could almost pretend he'd repressed it, he had clung to the memory of that kiss as a link to Dean himself. He'd been sure that even if they never spoke again, they'd always share that awkward, childish moment – even if it meant so much to one of them and nothing to the other. It had never even crossed Castiel's mind that Dean cared so little that he wouldn't even remember it.

Now that he was thinking about it for the first time in years, though – having no choice butto think about it – he wondered why. Why would Dean remember that kiss out of all the others he'd undoubtedly planted on random people over the years? Obviously it hadn't been as much of an experiment for him as Castiel had always assumed. He'd always had it in his mind – for some stupid reason – that he would be the only boy Dean had ever kissed; but then it can't have been much of a landmark if he'd _forgotten._

Why had he assumed that? Was it because it had been a big deal for _him_? For Castiel? As he'd grown older and learned more about sexuality – about _Dean's_ sexuality – he must have unconsciously gone over that memory and adjusted it according to his new wiser outlook. But maybe Dean wasn't all that everyone said he was; wasn't just the personality he projected at school.

That train of thought suddenly switched tracks, to one that struck more of a chord of shock than it probably should have. Maybe Castiel had been unfair to think Dean had changed into that one version of himself; to hold him up as an untouchable, unattainable _object _– an object of dreams and desires; of hopes that were defined by their uselessness. Maybe Castiel had spent the last few years lamenting the loss of someone who was still there.

The next day he packed the shirt in his school bag.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry about the double posting, I has some trouble with formatting. Grr.  
_

_Jeez! Cas will just not let me catch him a break! This bit was a little trickier to get through, but I think I've just about got it how I wanted it. Thank you to everyone who's been following this story, I really didn't expect anyone but me to enjoy it! I'm glad there are other saps out there :D_

_Every one of you amazing peeps who reviewed gets to pick out one of Gabriel's crude postcards to take home with you. There's plenty to go around._


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Please accept my deepest apologies for taking so long to update. I've re-written this bit about three times, and I think this is the version I like the most, but I've got a temperature and am chock full of cold medicine, so I'm reluctant to totally trust my own judgement. Enough moaning though; here it is. Hope I chose wisely._

* * *

Sam opened the door, his bored expression quickly turning transparent with joy when he saw who it was.

"Castiel! Oh my god, Cas! What are you doing here?"

Castiel found himself returning Sam's grin; it was impossible not to when someone was that happy to see you.

"I… came to return something of Dean's."

Okay, so he'd chickened out. He had taken the shirt to school, but during lunch break when he'd sought out its owner and found him surrounded by people, he couldn't do it. He couldn't just casually approach a group of people he never spoke to, many of whom he purposefully avoided sometimes. Even if he'd gotten past that obstacle, he'd then have had to speak to Dean.

In front of people.

"Something of Dean's?"

"Yes. Is he home?"

"Sorry. He's with Dad at the garage. What do you have of Dean's?"

Of course Sam would be confused, he was under the impression his brother and his ex-friend hadn't spoken properly for years. It might have been easier if that were still true – at least Castiel had known he could trust himself then.

He swung his bag off his back and pulled out blue flannel, offering it to Sam. "He left this at my house."

Sam looked at the shirt, then up at Cas from underneath raised eyebrows. "When was Dean at your house?"

"Last week. He was locked out. I believe he rang you first."

Sam frowned deeply, but nodded. "Yeah. I remember." He shifted his weight to his other foot, leaning on the door ponderously. Dean was right; he had grown recently.

Castiel's arm was starting to ache.

"Shall I just leave it with you, then?"

"Oh, right, yeah! Yeah, sure…"

Sam took the shirt. Finally.

"Hey, do you want to come in? Dean should be back soon. If you wanted to talk to him."

Castiel considered it. It could be good for him to clear the awkward feelings that lingered from their last conversation; to reassure himself that Dean was still Dean. The person that lived in his memories could be just under the surface – he didn't exist only through their shared secret. They'd never shared it anyway.

On the other hand, Castiel's insides were squirming just thinking about it.

_No, I don't think so._

"Okay."

_Damn it._

Sam smiled again. Enormously.

"Cool."

.:.

Sam had been distracting himself from homework by playing computer games when Castiel had interrupted him, so it was on the pause screen when they went inside. Sam asked if Cas wanted to play for a bit, and Cas thought what the hell.

After he'd got the hang of the format, he found he really quite enjoyed blowing the heads off zombies. And he was a very good aim, even if the maladroit controls made him miss a few times. They were both so caught up in Castiel's fight for survival against the hordes of the undead that they didn't notice the rumble that signalled the return of the Impala, nor did they hear the front door opening.

"Haha! Sam, I _knew _you wouldn't be able to… resist…"

On screen, a shambling grey figure burst out of its hiding place and began its slow attack. Castiel didn't even notice. He glanced up to see Dean blinking at him from the doorway.

"Hi, Dean." Sam said.

"Why are you here?" Dean said.

As he hadn't looked away from him yet, Castiel assumed Dean was referring to him. "I came to return your shirt. Sam invited me inside to shoot zombies."

"Oh right." His gaze flickered to Sam for a second, then he walked back the way he'd come and out of sight.

"Cas, you're about to get eaten."

Castiel turned back in time to see his onscreen self get their jugular torn out in a spatter of red pixels. Bloody text helpfully informed him '_You died'._ He got to his feet. "Thank you, Sam, that was fun."

He thought he might find Dean in the kitchen, but the kitchen was empty. Well, he'd come here to return his shirt, and now Dean knew it was back, even if Castiel hadn't physically given it to him. That would do.

He walked past the bothersome item of clothing where Sam had draped it over the end of the banister in the hallway and reached for the front door, more than a little relieved to be making a getaway. But before he could turn the handle he happened to glimpse out of the nearest window. His hand hesitated.

Michael was chatting to a neighbour across the road, so there would be no way for Castiel to emerge from the Winchesters' without being seen. A voice at the back of his head murmured that he'd have to face up to this one day, but a much louder voice drowned it out by saying that day didn't have to come yet. Anyway, after this, why would he have any need to hide his meetings with Dean from Michael? There was no reason to see Dean again now that he'd given his shirt back, so there would be no meetings.

Castiel looked at the shirt.

It made no sense to take it away again. He told himself.

But he could at least get the most out of this excuse if it was going to be his last interaction with Dean for the foreseeable future.

The shirt was in his hand and he was halfway up the stairs before the thought had finished forming. He considered stopping when it sank in what he was doing, but he didn't. He kept going until he was stood in front of a familiar door, the one furthest from the top of the stairs.

The last time Castiel had been here he'd been fourteen; he'd followed Dean upstairs while he was getting ready to go to the carnival with Lisa Braedon. Then Dean had gone and Castiel had returned home. If he'd known it would be his last visit he might not have left so easily.

It was very quiet up here, and shadowed; the window in the wrong place to catch the sinking sun. Maybe Dean was still downstairs after all.

His heartbeat was hammering in his ears and his palms were prickling. He could just hang the shirt on the door handle. That would make sense.

The door handle turned of its own accord.

Well, no, it didn't. Dean turned it from the other side, and then he was there instead of the painted wood, startled to a halt by Castiel's unannounced and unexpected presence.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, Castiel taking in well-worn work clothes and freckles that had been multiplied by specks of dirt and oil, all backlit by the low yellow sun as it flooded the room behind him. But what fixed his gaze were bright eyes, surprised and wary and focused solely on him. He felt a tug low in his belly, like there was a cord pulling him in, but outwardly he remained stock still.

Until fingers slid around his wrist and pulled; then he had no choice but to move.

He couldn't help it; he let out a yelp of shock as Dean yanked him through the door and closed it firmly behind him. All sorts of outcomes for such an abrupt introduction flooded his imagination, and a heatwave of tingling anticipation for what he knew was out of the question almost knocked him out. He concentrated on keeping his hand limp so it didn't grab Dean's wrist in return; tried to control his breathing so he wasn't actually panting, and hoped Dean hadn't noticed.

Thank God he wasn't looking at his face.

But Castiel quickly amended that sentiment when he was hit by another wave of shocking _want, _this time brought on by the way Dean was trailing his gaze from his toes to his torso. His eyes paused when they reached his mouth, but before Castiel could even process what he saw in them, they'd risen to meet his own in a kind of panic.

Dean threw his wrist away from him and took an uncoordinated step backwards. "Er, sorry…"

Castiel was confused. Why was he acting like this? Like… Like Castiel wanted him to act; had fantasised about him acting. It was hardly fair. And it didn't make sense in reality.

Had he just been impatient? Wanted Cas to say what he'd come to say and got irritated when he didn't immediately explain his being there?

"Why are you here, again?"

Dean's cheeks had flushed when they'd locked gazes but the colour was fading from them now. He was stood in the middle of the room, distracted by something on the wall to his left. Castiel followed his gaze to see what it was, and realised he was looking at his surroundings properly for the first time.

Dean's room looked exactly the same. The layout, the piled up junk, the broken cassette cases strewn across the carpet in the far corner. It did seem like he'd acquired a few more posters over the years, although the stylised black and white print of the Hindenburg disaster still had pride of place above his bed (something Cas had always found rather morbid).

Castiel may as well be in one of his own fantasies. His body had certainly decided to act like he was. "I came to return your shirt." He tried to explain.

Dean closed his eyes and swallowed. Only for a moment, but Castiel had no idea what to make of it. He had no idea what to make of any of this interaction.

"Oh right, yeah." His voice was gruff, abrupt. "Thanks. Didn't even notice it was gone." He was acting the opposite to the irritatingly easy-going person that had barged his way into the house the other day.

It was most disheartening.

This should be the moment for Cas to just throw the shirt on the bed and leave; Dean was obviously being made uncomfortable by his presence. But for some reason he couldn't get his arm to do that; couldn't get any part of him to do what he wanted. Dean's eyes rolled sideways to meet his, and the breath-hitch that it prompted jolted him into action. Castiel turned away quickly, suddenly mortified on top of the confusion, which he should really have been from the beginning. He tried to smooth the folds out of the shirt and went to lay it rather sheepishly on the bed. This had been a bad idea.

Dean cut him off. One second Castiel had a clear path to the bed, and the next there were hands taking the shirt from him, nudging his own out of the way. He very nearly walked into him.

Dean stayed where he was for a long, unfathomable moment, but didn't look up. Then he was gone again, taking the shirt and stuffing it without ceremony into a random drawer, even though it undoubtedly needed a wash.

Castiel stared at his back; his beautiful back and shoulders, and the muscles in his arm as he ran his hand over his head, thick hairs springing back and glowing almost blond in the aura of setting sun light. Then Castiel lowered his gaze to where the hem of his faded black t-shirt skimmed his back pockets, and understood why God had created well-fitting jeans.

"I thought I'd dreamt it."

Castiel snapped out of his reverie at the sound of Dean's voice. The statement had been said so simply and casually that it took a second for Castiel's otherwise occupied brain to process it. He'd thought he'd dreamt what? The shirt?

"You were pissed at me for forgetting, weren't you?" He turned around just as cold realisation sank to the bottom of Castiel's stomach, dragging his lungs with it. Dean shrugged. "You can't blame a guy. It was pretty unreal…"

The kiss. He was talking about it. They weren't supposed to talk about it.

"You looked like you'd swallowed a sock when I left you. Then I realised what you'd meant."

They weren't supposed to speak like this. Dean wasn't supposed to know what Castiel was thinking.

This was why he'd been acting oddly; he _knew._

He was leaning back against the chest of drawers with his arms folded over his chest; suddenly the very picture of ease. Too perfect. "I guess 'cause we never mentioned it again and pretended it didn't happen, I must have started to think it really didn't." Castiel shifted back towards the door, mind momentarily dead, and saw him straighten up out of the corner of his eye.

He couldn't look back to his face. His entire body was suddenly gripped with very real panic as everything cleared, and the extreme urge to run tightened his calf muscles as he finally started to walk.

"Where're you going?"

Castiel paused in his escape. "I'm…" As he began to speak, Dean started walking forwards, a look on his face that somehow made Castiel think of a freight train barrelling towards him. "I came to return your shirt and now I've returned your-" Castiel's eyes flew wide and his words sped up the nearer Dean got, until he was cut off by a firm hand covering his mouth and chin. Even then the freight train comparison continued to apply, because Dean didn't stop once he reached him, he kept going, forcing Castiel to match his step in reverse.

His back hit the door with a startlingly loud bang.

Just for a split second, Cas was thirteen again, hiding from Michael in a closet. And wasn't that an appropriate metaphor.

Dean's hand was strong and warm and his skin smelled of car grease and metal. "I didn't say you could leave. I'm not done with you yet."

To Castiel's never ending humiliation, he actually whimpered. But really, how could his mind _not_ have fallen in the gutter, watching Dean's lips form those words?

The noise broke Dean's expression; his hard mask fracturing around the mouth and something pulsing through his eyes that made Castiel's hands clutch against the door's flat surface behind him.

"Dean! What was that noise?"

They both flinched at the shout from downstairs. There was a strained pause, and then Dean suddenly released all the tension in his muscles, until he was draped delightfully against Castiel. He turned his face into the side of his neck, but kept his hand firmly in place over his mouth.

Castiel closed his eyes and clenched his jaw. Hard.

He had no idea what had brought this on or how it was actually happening, but God, he'd wanted it so badly for so long. There was no hope in heaven of him retaining any self control while at this proximity to the person he'd been in love with since before he hit double figures, and who'd driven him wild a thousand times in his head since he was fourteen.

"Nothing, Dad! Something fell over!" His breath was warm; his voice close and deep and vibrating right out of his chest and into Castiel's, which happened to be pressed against it. Castiel involuntarily leaned into him, lifting his body away from the door while his shoulders were held in place by Dean's weight, and there was absolutely nothing he could do to stop it. His hands stayed clawed against the flat wood, however much they twitched to be moved; to be pressed into thick muscle through soft cotton. But he couldn't touch him; he couldn't _touch Dean._

"So long as you haven't broken anything!"

Dean didn't reply any more, he was too busy using his mouth to push hot kisses into hotter skin, working his way up from collar bone to jaw line. Castiel's eyes popped right open.

_What the hell was going on?_ He'd certainly fantasised about activities very similar to this, _many_ times, but during all of those times the imaginary-him had a much better idea of why it was happening.

Castiel had taken a risk being the one to deliberately induce a meeting between him and Dean for the first time since they'd stopped being friends; he wasn't sure whether this decision had sparked the best moment of his life, or something rushed and disastrous with consequences that would kill him inside. His mind wanted him to run away, just break away and get out of there, _now, _but putting anything of the sort into practise was proving impossible.

What was he _doing_? This was _Dean. _These were Dean's lips covering his skin with hot tingles. This was Dean's bedroom. Where had this _come from_? He spent a few seconds trying to recall the last thing that had felt like reality, but then Dean's hand lifted away from his mouth and gave him a chance to drag in the lungfuls of air he'd been craving. Yes, there was no other word for it but panting.

_This is real. _The kisses reached his chin, then the corner of his mouth. _This can't be real. _Then swapped to the other corner of his mouth before hitting the centre; one quick peck and then another that didn't stop, that pushed hard enough to force them both back into the door. Hand's stroked up his sides, from his hips up to his chest, as he found his mouth being kissed apart. Dean made an impatient noise in his throat, and Cas forgot who he even was for a moment, creating the perfect opportunity for his self control to fly right out the window.

Dean was the only person who Castiel had ever been kissed by, and he wouldn't mind if it stayed that way. He didn't want to kiss anyone else. He'd never wanted to kiss anyone else. And this was the best one yet.

Fingers tangled into his hair on either side of his head, making his scalp tingle and his pulse flutter, holding him in place while Dean licked into his mouth in a way the linguistic part of Castiel's brain helpfully described as possessive. And Castiel knew there were so many reasons why this shouldn't be happening, but the only thing he could use his cloudy brain for at the moment was returning the kiss with as much fervour as he could muster. Which, considering the eons of longing and wishing and imagining, was a hell of a lot.

Dean's mouth was hot and deep and delicious, and it was so _much, _assaulting him with the full pressure of his lips and the taste of his tongue. His hands dragged back through his hair carelessly, just the journey on the way to bracing his forearms against the wood so he could hold his head in place.

Castiel was pretty sure his own hands had a mind of their own, because without him telling them to they'd been trailing all over Dean's back, desperate to feel every bit of warmth and to pull him in as close as possible. And now they seemed to be migrating south, on a path towards the seat of those jeans Castiel's eyes had already taken such a liking to. They crept down over his belt, traced over the shape of pockets and gently squeezed. All without him consciously allowing it.

Dean let out another low moan, swaying forwards away from the touch and into Castiel, and this time Castiel couldn't stop a sound escaping from his own throat. It was shamefully loud. He wasn't sure who broke the kiss, but Dean pulled him by his collar so their heads were side by side and their entire torsos were flush together, from collar bone to juddering hips.

Cas was left staring straight over Dean's shoulder and out of the window on the other side of the room; eyes like saucers. The air felt cool as it dried the hot moisture on and around is mouth.

Dean chuckled, and the sound caused Castiel's mouth to snap shut. He swallowed, muscles that had turned to putty wrenching taut.

"What are you trying to do, Cas?" His voice was thick, but threaded through with teasing.

The question destroyed the last of the warm hazy atmosphere with a flood of ice.

Dean's hands loosened their grip on his collar and began their stroking journey back down the front of his chest. They reached his waist and slipped under the hem of his sweater and t-shirt, so they were touching bare skin. Castiel's breathing somehow managed to falter, even though its pattern had pretty much diminished to a series of hitches.

"Is this why you really came to see me?"

No. He'd only come here to return the damned shirt. Maybe it had been a good excuse to get closer to Dean, but he'd never expected to get this close. He had got a game of zombie-killing with Sam in the bargain. Sam had made him feel like he'd arrived home. Dean had made him feel like…

"What's… happening here?" The words felt strange coming out of his mouth.

He wasn't sure he liked this. Things were becoming too real too fast. And Dean was… wrong. Cas pressed his lips together, focused intently on a smudge of clear sky amongst the clouds outside.

Fingers curled over the top of his waistband. He swallowed dryly.

"Shh…" Dean returned his mouth to the sensitive zone beneath his ear.

And that wasn't fair. Castiel wanted to be in control, desperately. He wanted to know what this was; whether it meant the same to both parties. He wished he could master his own emotions; stop them from leaking out all over the place and embarrassing him.

But he'd got what he wanted, hadn't he? So why didn't it feel right? Why did Dean sound like he was finding this whole thing funny? Like he was just doing it for amusement?

Like he could tell how Castiel felt about him and was enjoying the power trip.

That's what this was. Dean was using him for entertainment. He'd realised how Castiel felt when he'd remembered that kiss, and he _liked_ being able to control him.

Cas shoved him off, and he staggered from the force of it.

Just a glimpse of a surprised expression, of green eyes heady with lust, and then Castiel whirled on the spot to wrench the door open. He'd come here to uncover what was under the surface; to find the Dean he remembered beneath the person he saw every day at school. He'd been correct that there was more to him; more than that troublemaker that girls were crazy for and who was crazy for girls in return. But Castiel didn't like what he'd uncovered. He didn't like this Dean; this Dean who was confident enough to take what he wanted and used to getting much more than just a kiss.

A clumsy kiss in a dark wardrobe.

_("You're supposed to_ like_ getting kissed, Cas.")_

This wasn't his Dean. This was someone else. Someone intimidating and who'd grown up without him.

Seconds later, Castiel was tumbling into the evening. It was cooler out here with the sunset hidden behind the houses, and the air stung his fiery cheeks. Muscle memory took him to a gap in the hedge between their front lawns, a path both of them had frequented when visiting each other's houses, but it had more or less grown over now and the scratchy twigs caught at his clothes and hands.

_What are you trying to do, Cas?_

He forced himself to swallow the taste in his mouth.

* * *

_A/N: Reviewers (aka awesome folk) get a game of Resident Evil with Sam. Yeah that's right, this is set in real Winchester age time. You didn't know that? Well you're currently in 1996, the year the first horror computer game came out. (I totally researched it. In great detail.) I thought it was fitting._


	8. Chapter 8

Castiel was careful to keep as silent as he could while letting himself into the house, but he couldn't do anything about the ragged breaths that were shaking him from his fingertips to his knees. He headed straight for the stairs, his feet heavy and cumbersome to the point where he almost gave up and crawled.

His scalp tingled, still sensitive from where fingers had run through his hair, and his lips were tender and swollen and his tongue tasted of Dean.

He was a wreck.

Not ten minutes ago Castiel's life had been perfectly easy to navigate; he knew who he was and how he stood when it came to Dean Winchester. His attachment (obsession, whatever you wanted to call it) was crushing and frustrating and utterly painful, but he was used to it and knew what to do with it. He hadn't realised how dormant it was; how securely locked away. Now it had been pumped full of life, forced out of its safe little nest, and it didn't like it. It was crawling around inside him and tearing him up.

He felt used.

The railing creaked under his weight, making him pray that Michael was far away and too busy to hear that his brother had returned. Castiel had no idea what his mind or his body was so desperate to let go and do, whether it was collapse or cry or shut down; all he knew was that there were only a few more feet until he got to his room, where he could unravel behind a safely closed door.

He'd barely touched the handle when the doorbell rang behind him, making him flinch with its invading and cheerful chime. It was impossible to see who was outside, but Castiel got a feeling in his gut that made him freeze to the spot and stare.

Time got stuck in a groove. The seconds continued to stretch with awkward indecision until footsteps trailed through from the back of the house and broke the illusion. The light brown top of Michael's head came into view, giving Castiel just enough time to slip silently into his room. He kept the door ajar.

"Oh." Dean's voice said flatly, making Castiel clutch the top of his bookcase.

"Yes?"

"Hi. No, noth- I mean… Can you give this to Cas? Please."

Give what to Cas? He carefully unstuck his hand from his bookcase, paused, and then used it to open the door a fraction wider, just enough to poke his head through. He needn't have worried about Dean seeing him though; his line of sight up the stairs was blocked by the door lintel. Castiel could only see him from the chest down, starting around the same level as the stupid AC/DC logo that had cracked in the wash over the years. His hands tingled at the memory of how that warm fabric had felt; a thin layer between them and hot smooth skin. Only minutes ago.

Dean was holding something out and waiting for Michael to take it from him, in an unconscious mirroring of what Castiel had done with Sam earlier. It was a sensible black rucksack, one of the zips broken and the left strap tied together with a piece of string. This wasn't visible – it had been done delicately enough so you wouldn't notice it – but Castiel knew it was there, because he was the one who'd fixed it.

It seemed the world would remain much simpler if everyone could just be less absent-minded, and stop leaving things at each other's houses.

Michael took a long time to snap into focus before he took Castiel's bag with a careful hand. "I'll see that he gets it." He said, his tone inscrutable.

"Right. Thanks. Also…"

"Also?"

"Er. Nothing. Never mind."

_Also, tell him he's a crappy kisser._

Michael started to shut the door, and Dean took the hint, taking a couple of steps backwards before turning and walking away. It gave Castiel a clear view of his feet. He hadn't stopped to put any shoes on, so his socks were sopping wet.

_Also, tell him I'm sorry._

"Castiel?" Michael called unsurely.

Castiel whipped his head back into his room, flattening himself against the inside wall.

"I'll leave this here. In case you want it."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry this is such a short update! I'm still sorting the next bit but I really wanted to post something and tell all you guys that I love you. For serious. Everyone who reviewed the last chapter boosted my confidence like nobody's business and made me feel ten times better (mentally at least). I was flailing and blushing all over the place. I would've replied to you all individually and gushed profusely but I thought you'd prefer it if I spent that time writing some more. Also, that would have been messy._

_P.S. On a side note, please don't spoil me for tonight's episode! I don't live in the US so can't watch it live…_


	9. Chapter 9

Man alive. Sorry for that unexpected hiatus.

There's no Dean and Castiel interaction in this chapter, because I'm still ironing out some creases, but don't worry, it won't be long in coming. This is just a slice of family back story, but hopefully it serves some character-building purpose.

* * *

_Gabriel and Michael were arguing again._

_Castiel sat on the landing outside his bedroom and listened, his knuckles sore and his cheek throbbing. They'd been arguing a lot lately, about everything that they could possibly disagree on: Gabriel was too old to still live at home – but it wasn't like it was your normal sponging-off-the-parents situation, he paid for half the bills; Gabriel should tell Michael when he was bringing a girl over – once again, Michael was not his father, and everyone was old enough to deal with it, or was it just that he was jealous? Today they had a new subject – Gabriel shouldn't encourage their baby brother to take part in brawls._

'_Sack up and suck it up.' That's what Gabriel used to say if Castiel ever found himself on the receiving end of one of his pranks, and that was the phrase that came to mind when he'd realised he was under attack earlier that day. It was hardly as if his brother had been standing on the sidelines egging him on; he'd just been impressed afterwards, letting out a long, low whistle when Castiel burst through the door, gasping from the mile he'd just sprinted without stopping._

_He still wasn't sure why they'd picked on him, stopped him as he tried to walk past them down his usual shortcut. They were high school age, something Castiel still had a few months before he reached, so the most he'd managed was vague recognition from seeing them around the area. It was just that another case of that thing about him that he couldn't figure out – why people got so much pleasure from taunting him. He really wished someone would tell him what it was so he could stop doing it._

_The trio had pushed off from the wall, casually blocking his way. "Nice coat. You aiming for a career as a flasher?" They'd reminded him of hyenas._

_Back in the present his brothers' voices became clearer for a moment as they came out of the living room and passed underneath Castiel's perch. Gabriel was putting on a false air of nonchalance as Michael trailed after him, an unbroken stream of reproach spilling out of his mouth. "Jeez, Mikey. Why so tetchy? You need to get laid, bro." Michael slammed the kitchen door behind them._

_In the past Castiel had interrupted their fights, tried to settle things without taking sides, but the times when he'd made a difference were long gone. He just couldn't be bothered any more. And right now he was nursing his own wounds. _

_Castiel had tried to get away without making any more trouble, even though the only thing he could have done to offend these three was walk towards them. But they hadn't let him go, they wouldn't _step back_, and eventually Castiel had lost his temper. He hadn't done that for a very long time; he'd forgotten how it stopped him thinking rationally._

_He'd managed to break away after taking a few better-controlled hits in return, and then all he'd wanted to do was run. Gabriel was in the living room when he got home; had guided him to a chair and waited until he could breathe again._

"_It's about time you started standing up for yourself. How'd it feel?"_

_Castiel had stared at his hands; his knuckles were red and felt tight. He shook his head. "I… didn't like it. I didn't like how it felt to hurt someone."_

_Gabriel had sighed and rolled his eyes. "You're gonna have to cowboy up if you wanna get by in the world, kiddo. And by the world I mean high school."_

_When Michael got home and saw the state of him, he dropped his satchel._

"_You are _such _a mom…" Gabriel muttered as his brother fussed._

_Of course Michael had assumed that someone had done this _to _Castiel, and was incredibly shocked when Castiel admitted that it had been he who had started the fight (technically). He'd immediately turned to Gabriel with a frown; "This is your fault."_

"_What? How?"_

"_You're always trying to get him to misbehave."_

"_I would've thought you'd be happy he's such a tough little cookie."_

"_Violence should only ever be used as a last resort."_

_At this point Castiel had made his excuses and slipped away, traipsing upstairs to clean up and change his clothes. And possibly throw up. _

_When he'd come out onto the landing again it was to the sounds of raised voices. He'd stopped checking the clock after half an hour._

_By now Gabriel's voice was losing its apparent lack of concern and was starting to get pitchy, the way it did when he was finding it hard to keep holding back emotion. "You really want me gone? You want me to leave you and good little Castiel alone –stop leading him astray and let him get on with being obedient?" _

_The boy in question's stomach twisted, but the fact they were arguing about him made him want to intervene even less. This subject cut much closer to the bone than usual._

"_Don't be overdramatic."_

"_Somebody has to be, brother dearest, or this house would be like a monastery. And you know what?" His voice suddenly changed, like the built up dam had finally broken. "I'm fucking sick of it."_

_The kitchen door was flung open and Castiel's spine snapped straight in a second. Gabriel appeared in a flash of movement on the other side of the railings, and then he'd opened the front door and stormed out of the house. It slammed shut behind him, and that was that._

_He hadn't even turned around._

_Castiel padded down the stairs, pausing when he reached the bottom and staring at the door handle. _

"_Don't worry. He's too lazy to live on his own." Michael said from behind him. "He'll be back."_

_And he did come back; to collect most of his things and empty out half of the kitchen cupboards, but it was when nobody was home._


	10. Chapter 10

_Finally, a proper update! And it's so long I've split it into two chapters! Sorry for keeping you hanging, guys._

* * *

Ever since he'd rediscovered the place a couple of years ago, the little clearing in the woods behind the church had become a kind of den for Castiel; somewhere he'd go to get away from whatever troubles or people that might be bothering him. It didn't work so well when one of the people he wanted to get away from was himself.

When he'd woken up (a term loosely used) the morning after his trip next door, he could almost believe he'd imagined what had happened there. Having no-one to check facts with and all of it taking place in that one room he could so easily conjure out of his imagination; it could have been a dream. But he knew it hadn't been.

He'd spent the whole night replaying every detail he could, over and over. Sometimes it made his hands fist in his bed sheets and his breath come hot and ragged, but most of the time the ache was just the pain of regret. Dean had been his, just for a moment, and Castiel had run away. He'd done what he'd felt was right, but once he was alone again he wished he'd stayed. He wished he'd let Dean keep going as far as he wanted, even if it would have left him feeling empty inside.

It was a Saturday, the kind where Castiel didn't want to get dressed and didn't need to, but his sleepless night had meant he was up at the crack of dawn with Michael (his brother was an early riser) and picking at breakfast from one side of a tense and invisible barrier.

"I didn't realise you were friends with Dean Winchester again."

"I'm not. Not really. I spent most of my time there with Sam."

And none of that was a lie.

He was out of the house before eight.

It had briefly crossed his mind as he'd passed the end of next door's drive that it might be best if he went to talk to Dean. Even if it just screwed his head up some more, at least he'd know what was going on. He wouldn't know what to do about it, but he'd have a base to start from.

His feet hadn't even slowed down.

There had been a couple of people in the church when he'd passed it, early birds practising for the choir concert that evening, but the weather had made sure nobody dawdled when getting out of their cars and Castiel had been able to slip unnoticed through the cemetery. A strong gale had started up during the night; the kind that drowned out all save the loudest and nearest sounds with its howl. The woods had provided some shelter from the cold sting but it was even noisier under the canopy; branches groaning, hedges hissing and swaying and damp leaves fluttering everywhere, sticking to clothes and leaving flecks of mud on skin.

Presently, Castiel was perched on a sapling that had been torn from the ground to rest between two larger trees, its tiny leaves flapping desperately. It was narrow but sturdy, and capable of taking Castiel's weight, wrapped up as he was in an almost threadbare tan overcoat. He'd brought nothing with him, no book or sketchpad; he couldn't focus on anything without his thoughts distracting him, and any resistance to them had been made practically non-existent by lack of sleep. The spot where he sat looked out into the clearing and over the edge of the sunken hollow, making him think of happier times when he really shouldn't be, because everything was tainted now.

Little pieces of yesterday's dreamlike events kept appearing at the front of his mind unbidden; Dean's breath on his neck, Dean's touch on his stomach, Dean's tongue on his tongue. Castiel had pushed away too hastily; should have at least stayed to explain himself, or let Dean explain. Well, if Dean had even felt there _was _any need to explain. Maybe he hadn't known quite the extent of what he was doing after all; hadn't picked up on just how much the whole thing meant to Castiel.

But that atmosphere hadn't been one for talking; in that moment Castiel couldn't say anything, couldn't think of anything that Dean would have wanted to hear. Something he wouldn't have laughed at. So Castiel had just taken himself out of the situation.

He'd stopped analysing things at that point, not daring to follow the last thought through. He'd reminded himself too much of someone.

The sky above the trees was grey and blustery in a way that suggested more torrential rain. It had poured down nearly every day for the last week, something Castiel had failed to take into consideration when he'd made his hasty getaway from the house, and he suddenly realised he had no choice but to walk all the way home, so should probably get going before the heavens opened. He was really not in the mood to be moving right now, but he hopped down all the same and began to retrace the path he'd forged over an hour ago.

The coat snagged on a thorny shrub less than ten seconds later, and he had to pause to disentangle himself. It was a battered and dusty thing, the last vestige of his absent father; abandoned in a hurry when the man had wasted no time escaping a dead wife and her sons – two older boys that weren't his, and a baby that was. Castiel had gone through a phase when he was younger of wearing the coat all the time, after Michael found it packed up in some old boxes. He'd hoped it might help him feel some kind of connection to the man who had left him behind; the parent who had left of his own free will. But it hadn't helped, not at all.

The tan overcoat still held some meaning, but it had diminished after becoming too much of a burden every time Castiel wore it, and now it was mostly just a bedraggled old item of clothing. He'd grabbed it on impulse for the first time in years, from its permanent home on the hooks near the door, and had been glad of its security on the walk from the house, however little it gave.

After a few minutes of slow ambling, the woods began to thin and Castiel soon emerged completely from the trees, the rustling noise lessening as well as the protection when he did. He looked up at the church tower when he became aware of a distant tolling; the wind had picked up so much by now that it was buffeting the bell in its shelter, causing its eerie peal to carry across the old headstones.

But for whom did it toll? asked a doom laden voice in his head. Well, there was no one else in sight, so it must be for him.

In an unconscious bid to confirm he was indeed alone, he checked the street on the other side of the building, beyond the fence and small cluster of parking bays that were used by churchgoers. He stopped dead, his eyes immediately getting stuck to the familiar form he was met with. It made Castiel's heart leap up his throat and into his mouth like a spawning salmon.

He was leaning against the driver's side door of his dad's car, collar turned up against the wind and standing watch over the entrance to the church. No, not his dad's car; his car. The Impala belonged to Dean now.

For a split second Castiel thought he was projecting wishful thinking into a full-blown hallucination. But then Dean turned to face him, and he realised he couldn't have imagined that particular look of surprise; the one that swapped between him and the church entrance and quickly adapted into _'where the fuck did you come from?' _Even from a distance it was easy to read.

He was definitely waiting for him then. Not that Castiel had expected him to have suddenly embraced Christianity, or joined the choir or something.

All of a sudden Castiel remembered a tight grip on his collar, knuckles brushing the pulse point in his neck; hands down his chest and fingers dipping behind his waistband. It all came rushing back in a great tsunami of sensation, but he put up barriers before it could flood his head completely and wash away rational thought.

He carefully – _very_ carefully – took a step forwards, and once that massive obstacle was out of the way he found it quite easy to keep putting one foot in front of the other. He kept his eyes on the appendages in question though, just in case they showed signs of doing something silly, like tripping him up, or running.

He couldn't look at Dean, but he didn't need to – he saw when he pushed up off the car out of the corner of his eye. No doubt the surprise on his face grew when he realised Castiel had no intention of stopping.

It wasn't a conscious decision, he didn't think. He just couldn't stop walking.

"Hey."

The pace of his feet sped up.

"Cas. Hey!"

A hand grabbed his arm just above his elbow; he flung it off in a great big whirling shrug and staggered backwards. "Don't touch me!" Dean was stunned to the spot by the force of his reaction, so Castiel took his chance and bolted. Straight back to the woods. Damn his silly feet.

In his lifetime Castiel had gathered more experience than he would have liked of people following him expressly to torment him, and had found running like hell preferable to standing his ground, if at all possible. It wasn't that he was averse to getting bloody, but common sense stated that flight was an easier way out than fight, and it ended far less messily. So when he saw Dean had come after him, not to torment, but to do something much worse, Castiel acted as he'd grown accustomed to acting when he felt threatened.

"Wha- CAS!"

He really wished he'd stop saying his name like that.

It had been Dean that had prompted him to run – yesterday and right now – but there was no getting away from the fact that Castiel's own failings had a lot to do with it; specifically his reluctance to agree to anything less than his stupid romantic pipedream. Because even if it didn't mean the same to him, Dean still _wanted _him, which was so unbearable to think about that Castiel preferred not to. He'd pushed away gentle touches and needy kisses, things that he could have had more of if he was willing to accept things objectively. But he couldn't give in to that, not like Dean could. He couldn't hold back emotion to get what he craved and damn the consequences.

Maybe that made him unusual. He wouldn't know.

But whatever the case, he couldn't _tell him. _Dean wouldn't get it. Dean didn't think like that.

Everything had been so rushed and sudden, and Castiel couldn't bear it. His infatuation with Dean was okay when it was inside his head, when it was a secret; as soon as Dean found out – when he _knew_ – it opened Castiel up to all kinds of horrible things, like rejection and humiliation and disappointment. He'd spent so much time longing to be near Dean, and now that Dean had actually approached _him, _he'd rather run away.

Now was a strange time to feel connected to his father, and it had come because he'd done something he'd always been adamant he wouldn't; he'd left rather than deal with something important, for no other reasons except cowardice and selfishness. It must be etched into his genetic make-up to flee; this must be what he'd inherited from the father who'd wanted nothing to do with him. The worst thing he possibly could have.

But he couldn't help it. He was flying away; if he stopped moving he'd fall, and that wasn't something he could handle.

As soon as he was back amongst the trees he felt better; less exposed. He had the upper hand in here; he could shake off his pursuer, and if the worst came to the desperate there was a tree he could climb up ahead. Not that that would stop Dean coming up after him, veteran tree-climber that he was. Which of the big cats was it that could chase its prey up trees? Or was it all of them? Somehow he didn't think taking off his clothes one item at a time for Dean to stop and inspect would work as a diversion either. Or was that polar bears?

Castiel was pretty sure his brain was performing its own diversion tactics right now, to distract him from what he'd just done.

He thrashed a swooping branch out of his way just as the first heavy drop of rain hit his cheek with a crack. Oh brilliant, and now he was going to get soaked because he was such a coward. He supposed it served him right. Or maybe it was a sign he should man up and turn around.

_Sack up and suck it up._

He chose to ignore the voice in his head, that one he hadn't heard in real life for years.

Thudding footsteps were gaining on him; rustling undergrowth that was different to the ferocious bluster of the wind. A careless hunter approaching fast. The fact that he was chasing him filled Castiel with both heavy dread and absolute elation that he cared enough to seek him out. But he couldn't imagine he'd have anything good to say.

Castiel was almost back at the sunken clearing by now; the trees were thinning in a familiar pattern around him. He threw a glance over his shoulder, just to check if Dean was visible yet, or if he still had the opportunity to lose him completely. Once he reached the little cliff of earth maybe he'd have time to jump down and huddle into it. Surely Dean would think he'd just kept going.

But before he could try, the thicket next to him exploded, spitting Dean right into his path with a less than coordinated lurch. Castiel jerked to a halt on legs that had turned to jelly, like he'd been dealt a physical blow.

Damn. He really should have been paying attention to what was in front of him; should have been looking ahead instead of behind him.

"Stop running away from me!" Dean spluttered, his cheeks pink and eyes shining from the exertion coupled with the cold, battering air. The sight of him and the tone of his voice splintered something inside, and Castiel was sure it happened with an audible _crack. _"What are you, allergic to standing still?" He was gasping, scattering the rainwater that ran over his mouth. "You're like a fucking gazelle or something, what the hell are you even doing out here? You know what, never mind. I'm just gonna say what I came to before you run off again." He flung up his hands in front of him. "And it might get weird… but you have to hear me out okay?"

Castiel just stood and tried to recover, eyes fixed unblinking on Dean's face. His heart continued to pound the inside of his chest like a drum, pumping feverish blood around his body, and his breath stuttered its way out in ragged puffs of condensation, which the wind whipped out of his open mouth before they even had a chance to pass his lips.

Dean took his silence as an invitation to continue. "Okay. Look. I'm not… used to…" He adjusted his weight with a soggy squelch of mud. "I'm _sorry_. There. Whatever I did to make you run away, I didn't mean it how you took it… I'm hoping it was something I did anyway, and you're not just…" He snapped his mouth shut, cutting himself off. Castiel's chest squeezed.

Dean watched him carefully for a few seconds before speaking again. "Don't get the wrong idea – I'm not apologising for everything. No way am I sorry for kissing you, and you can't tell me you weren't enjoying it either. I was there, remember?" His mouth curled up in one corner, showing a flash of teeth. "I was on the receiving end of your octopus hands."

Castiel was sure that should have been encouraging, but he was still very confused, and instead it made his stomach twist with remembered shame. Dean had laughed. He'd laughed at him yesterday when he was at his most vulnerable.

He realised his hands were icy cold and shaking so tucked them under his arms, clutching handfuls of his coat.

Dean registered the movement and looked off to one side with a frown. "So I'm hoping you ran because I was a dick, and not, you know," _Because you're a prude. _"'Cause it freaked you out or something..."

Well that was an understatement.

Dean turned to look at him again, "You can't just _run away_, though, Cas. You can't just," he waved his hands around, spraying little droplets to arc away from him, "expect me to know what's up. I'm not a mind reader." He sighed heavily, leaving a pause. "C'mon, man. Say something. Please?"

The shelter that the trees afforded was minimal, and the rain had really gathered force by now, mixing with cooling sweat to plaster spikes of hair to Castiel's forehead and trail cold fingers down the back of his collar. What was he supposed to say? Just because Dean wasn't sorry for kissing him didn't mean he should get his hopes up; he knew all along that there was no question about whether Dean had wanted to do what he'd done. The uncertainty was all to do with motive.

But it had helped, when he'd apologised. He wasn't the enemy any more; he wasn't out to hurt him, at least not on purpose. His proximity just happened to shoot Castiel's emotions and hormones all over the place and make him lose trust in himself.

"What do you want me to say?"

He couldn't tell the truth – how he'd run because he couldn't face him; couldn't face his own feelings for someone, not when they were so strong. There was no way he could admit them to anyone but himself, and _especially _not to the person it was all for. Because nothing was ever guaranteed; not even with family. And all the evidence so far, everything he'd collected over the years, pointed to an outcome where Castiel would be disappointed. More than disappointed.

Because everyone left. Everyone except Michael.

Dean had blinked in surprise when he'd spoken, like he'd assumed he'd lost the use of his voice. "I dunno. How about explaining why you ran?" He didn't specify which time, but then it didn't matter. All the reasons had been the same.

_Because you didn't react how I expected you to._

"I'm…" The words seemed to be finding it a hard task to crawl out of his throat. "…not like you." His voice was harder than usual; defensive – he had been hiding for far too long, and even this taste of exposure was proving unbearable. "I can't just turn it off." He wished he could; really wished he wasn't so much like the heroine of a second-rate romance novel. He wished he didn't care so much.

Dean had been focused intently on his face, but now he turned to brush the water from his eyes in an irritable swipe that made Castiel's heart flutter. He almost felt like smiling. He scowled instead.

"You're gonna have to clarify, Cas. I've got no fucking clue what you mean."

Castiel's scowl deepened, and he aimed it at a muddy puddle near his shoe. "I can't just ignore… how I _feel._" Well this was mortifying. At least there was no one around to witness it. Except for Dean, and that was possibly worse than if he'd been surrounded by strangers.

There was a pause; far too long and far too heavy. Castiel swallowed down the sick feeling.

"Is this… something to do with your brother again?"

Castiel blinked; managed a "No" as his eyes made the journey back to Dean's face. His expression was set – he was defensive too (_"Does your brother _still_ hate me?"_) – but his gaze was beaming out confusion like a laser. Castiel managed about four seconds of eye contact before he had to look away again. "I can form opinions without Michael's approval, you know." Could he really?

Anyway, this _didn't_ have anything to do with Michael; it had to do with him and Dean; kisses and misunderstandings. And seeing him with girls and feeling like someone had struck a great big empty bell inside his stomach.

Another long pause, both of them quickly getting drenched to the bone.

"_Fuck_- I'm drowning here! Can we go back to the car or something? I promise I won't try any funny business."

Castiel glanced at him, but shook his head. He felt like a tightly wound coil in a much bigger mechanism; one touch would set the whole thing off. So the idea of getting into a small space with Dean that could be locked/driven away with him in it at any moment didn't sound tempting right now.

"Okay, let's make this simple."

Cas turned his head forwards slightly, intrigued by Dean's abruptly businesslike tone.

"I'm going to ask you questions, and you're going to nod for yes and shake for no. Got it?"

This felt like a pop quiz or something. It could be construed as mildly patronising, but at this point Castiel readily took it for what it was – a way to get past all the awkward confusion swirling about all over the place; a simple way to set things straight, because neither of them seemed to be very good at explaining themselves. He was surprised at how relieved he was; this was something he could do. Nod for yes, shake for no. Simple. Laughably so.

Apart from the answering questions bit.

"So we know the kissing was a good thing. Right?"

Cas frowned and pushed his chin forwards. It wasn't quite as easy as that. That wasn't a yes/no question. Yes, the kissing was good on various levels, but he wasn't sure it was a _good thing _in the long run.

"Jesus Christ." said Dean, flatly. Castiel flicked him a worried look out of the corner of his eye. "Okay, next question." He quickly moved on, probably thinking Cas was on the brink of darting off again. He wouldn't be wrong. If it was possible, Castiel would have disappeared on the spot as soon as Dean had fallen out of the swaying undergrowth.

"Does the whole… guy on guy thing freak you out?"

That made Castiel frown for a different reason. He shook his head. Although he couldn't say the same for everyone in his family.

"Oh, thank fuck…" The relief in his voice was palpable; Castiel gulped. "Good. _Good. _This is _progress, _Cas."

But he suddenly realised Dean had been inching closer while he'd been speaking. He must have seen something in his face, because he froze to the spot, hands raised slightly in an appeasing gesture, like he was trying to calm a cornered animal.

This was ridiculous. This whole situation was ridiculous. They were both saturated to the point where jumping in a swimming pool wouldn't have made much difference, and if his jaw hadn't been locked by determination alone Castiel was pretty sure his teeth would be chattering. The overcoat had lost most of its shower-proofing over the years, so the rain was beating down on his shoulders and soaking right through. Castiel huffed out a sigh, pulled himself together, and looked Dean full in the face. "Fine. Let's go back to your car."

He frowned when Dean's expression had an odd little spasm, where it looked like he'd stopped himself smiling just a little too late. His eyebrows raised like nothing has happened and he wafted a hand. "Lead on, Macduff."

Castiel decided to ignore that heinous misquotation and set off, back along the path he'd trampled through shallow undergrowth mere minutes ago. He didn't turn around or stop once, but he could hear Dean following him, could feel his presence – too close – and it made his skin prickle with heat beneath his damp clothes to know he was within touching distance.

After a minute or so of tangled twigs snagging at their ankles, the undergrowth cleared, opening out into plain topsoil as they neared the edge of the woods. The rain pounded into the ground here, churning up earth and fallen leaves, making their footsteps squelchy as they made their way down the tiered mud path into the cemetery. The shape of the wind was visible out in the open, dispersing the falling rain to douse the old stone of the graves and the walls of the church with staggered helpings of denser raindrops.

"So do you come here often?" Dean asked, catching up to walk beside him along the grass path. "Believe it or not, I didn't mean for that to come out like a cheesy chat-up line."

Castiel blinked at his feet, eyelashes sticking together from the cold rain battering his face. "I like… trees."

Good grief. He tried to pretend he hadn't just said that. The statement held a lot more meaning beneath the surface – the way he found trees calming because they were alive but didn't have emotions. They just lived simply, growing slowly over many lifetimes but always staying in the same place – they did what they were supposed to do and didn't have to make decisions. But he wasn't very good at explaining; especially not right now when his mind was on other things.

"Oh. Okay…" And he could tell he was trying not to laugh.

Castiel frowned lightly. "And there aren't usually many people around." He made it clear that he was referring to Dean when he said that.

"I thought you'd be in the church, you know, singing or whatever." The wind still threw the odd snatch of sound at them from the building; little snippets of song from the small choir. What they lacked in numbers they made up for with enthusiasm.

"No, Dean. I'm not in the choir." He didn't bother mentioning the fact he couldn't join even if he had wanted to (which he didn't), on account of the fact he was completely tone deaf. He did go to church concerts and things sometimes, but only because Michael was always helping to organise things. It didn't mean they weren't boring. "How did you know where I was?"

"I asked. Michael said you might be here."

Castiel's feet stopped moving. Dean took a second to realise before he stopped too.

"You talked to _Michael?_"

How? Why?

He couldn't have done.

"Like I said before, I'm not a mind reader. I didn't just follow my spidey senses across town."

But what Castiel had really meant was _"Michael talked to _you?_" _Because that was what he couldn't get his head around.

"Are you sure?"

"Am I sure it was your brother I was talking to? Yeah, I'm pretty sure. At least, I didn't see any alien clone-pods in the basement when you shut me in there."

But. Why would Michael tell Dean where he was? He didn't like Dean. He didn't want him and Castiel near each other. He'd told him as much, after he'd found out about the wardrobe kiss. Not that he'd ever admitted that he knew about it.

"And he told you where to find me?"

"Yeah. I said I needed to talk to you. Thought you'd be home, but I guess that would have been too simple. Do you spend all your Saturday mornings moping about in damp forests?"

Dean hadn't seemed to have grasped what a monumentally big deal it was that Michael had been instrumental in bringing them together. It meant… Castiel didn't know what it meant. But it felt like his brother was sending him a message.

"Will you move your ass? It's still raining, in case you haven't noticed."

Castiel looked up. It was hard to ignore, especially now they had left the relative shelter of the trees behind. The wind whipped his too-big coat in great flurry around him, tugging it from where it had been stuck to his clothes underneath. He started forwards again, but he must still have been too slow because Dean hurried on ahead.

He was digging around in the trunk when Castiel reached the Impala. "Wait there a sec!"

The trunk lid hid him from sight for a few seconds, but then he returned carrying a large blanket. Castiel blinked; surprised by this unexpected gesture of thoughtfulness. He couldn't help but be touched by it.

That is, until Dean walked right past him and proceeded to lay it across the front seat of the car, careful to cover as much of the leather as he could. That was more like it.

"Okay, you can get in now."

He held the door open for him while he did, probably not trusting him to keep his mucky paws off the door upholstery. Castiel wasn't in the mood to roll his eyes.


	11. Chapter 11

The outside world was shut out with a metallic creak, and the sudden lack of rain battering him from all angles was somewhat jarring. As was the odd muffled atmosphere, made more so by the cushioning of the tatty old blanket he was sitting on. The rain still made itself known, in the way it drummed incessantly on the roof and spilled waterfalls over all of the windows, blurring the view of the street.

Dean slid into the driver's seat, glanced sideways once, and then stared out of the windscreen. The atmosphere abruptly sharpened, and they were back to business.

"I don't exactly make a habit of dragging guys into my room to molest them, you know." He started, like Castiel had accused him of doing exactly that. He had to admit it wasn't far from some of the scenarios that had crossed his mind.

Dean continued after a pause, his voice tightening with frustration. "I'm tr-… I'm not good at… I was just trying to _show you. _Yeah, okay, maybe I came off as douchey but _I_ was freaking out…" He let out a short groan. "I mean, not like that. _Feelings_, dude. You know I suck at them… I _thought _maybe it was just that. At first. But it was never the same. It's just you, you ass."

Castiel bristled. This must be Dean's way of telling him that his feelings weren't reciprocated; that it was _just him_ who felt like this.

No… that didn't fit.

He _was _listening, really; but the information wasn't soaking in quite as well as the rainwater was. He barely understood half of what Dean was telling him, and even that was guesswork. But it sounded… Well he definitely wasn't laughing at him again.

He turned to meet his gaze, and he looked annoyed; desperate to _understand. _"Cas, I know all this is really _What The Fuck_ and everything, but if you enjoyed it and don't care about the guy thing, I don't know what the problem is." He pushed a hand into his wet hair so it stuck up at the front. "You have to _talk to me, _man."

_It was never the same. _Castiel knew what that would have meant if _he_ had said it, but he was having trouble believing the same thing of Dean.

There had been people in the past that Castiel had found attractive, of course, but never, _never _anything near as strong as what he felt for his next door neighbour. He'd never wanted anyone else like this – there had never been anyone else he'd wanted to _be with_ in every way possible. Because he was in love.

An odd, distant, apprehensive kind of love, but the main reasons for that were self-imposed.

It wasn't as though Castiel had missed chances to get closer to Dean; it was more that he'd decided not to take any risks a very long time ago. He could never have handled the outright rejection; Dean didn't return his feelings, and Castiel would just have to get over it. That's what he'd told himself while he'd been living and sleeping a matter of feet away through a few walls.

Maybe he hadn't realised until now just how much his decisions had been influenced by what other people expected of him. No, not other people; just Michael. Michael, who'd given up his own future to look after his baby brother, and never asked for any thanks. Castiel owed him his safety and security, and so he'd always tried to offer any security he could in return.

Gabriel had always been the one who made a fuss. Then one day Gabriel had walked out after an argument and disappeared, without so much as a written word for nearly two years. And Castiel had felt like he should have tried harder to patch them up, like he used to when he was little; when they were all together and things were easier.

Castiel had been waiting until he moved out himself, until he started a new life, before he directed any sort of romantic feelings towards other people. It was just because Dean was always right there – it made letting go impossible. But he'd known all along nothing would come of it, so he'd given up and never looked back. Not until recently, anyway.

Maybe if he didn't tell him, things could go back to normal in the end. Castiel would be able to return to his state of distant suffering; the kind that didn't hurt anyone but himself, and that nobody knew about. The easy kind.

And then maybe Gabriel's next postcard would send news that he was settling down and getting a steady job and having two-point-five kids.

It just wasn't going to happen.

This wasn't going to go away if he left it; ignoring things didn't make them stop existing.

Dean wasn't going to leave him alone. Not this time.

"I… need…" Castiel started, laboriously. His words were almost scared away by the intense focus they garnered from Dean, but he managed to hold them in place. "…to know…" Every syllable took far too much effort, but the last one was the hardest. "…why."

"Why what? Why I kissed you?"

"Yes."

"Which time?"

That threw him off a bit. "The- Yesterday."

"I thought we covered that?"

_I'm sorry, what reality did that happen in? _"No. We did not cover that."

Apparently this was cause for embarrassment; Dean suddenly looked ten times more uncomfortable. He shrugged. "Why do you think?"

_Because you saw right through me and took advantage of the situation. _Everyone liked to feel wanted after all.

"Because you saw right through me." Castiel practically choked on his own tongue. He'd just said that out loud! He'd just thought that in his head and then the same words came out of his mouth. Why did that only ever happen when he didn't want it to?

Dean nodded, relieved he didn't have to explain. "Right."

_What?_

"Hey, you're not exactly subtle. Seriously dude, bedroom eyes all over the place. If it was actually possible to undress someone with your eyes I would've been naked within seconds of stepping into your house." He did that smirk again. "So when you were there outside my room, looking like you were waiting for me to let you in… Hard to resist."

Oh.

Castiel had known he was right. He had. But it would have been nice to have been proved wrong.

And for a moment, he'd thought…

Castiel closed his eyes. Just shut the world out.

He'd thought there might have been a chance.

He couldn't restrain the crippling hurt from his expression any longer, so he hid, already reaching for the car door as he turned away. He didn't even manage to open it before there were hands clutching at him, pulling with Dean's full weight to keep him inside the vehicle.

"He-ey! I thought we were done with the running away thing! What the hell is up with you - I don't get it!"

And all of a sudden, shame turned to fury; hurt twisted its way around inside him, becoming a defensive weapon. Dean was right; he couldn't keep running away. It was time to choose fight over flight for once.

Castiel stopped straining against his hold, and the tension snapped; Dean let out a noise of surprise.

"How _easy_ it must be to be Dean Winchester. You don't get it? Oh. I'm sorry, what are you having a hard time with? The fact that you don't speak to me for _years_ and then 'molest' me, to use your phrasing… Or maybe it's the fact that you figured-… that you figured me out and thought you could…" His words dried up as suddenly as they'd burst out of him.

Dean was keeping a hold of one of his arms, even as Castiel was trying to jerk it out of his grip. His expression was set to total bewilderment.

"I thought you were okay with it!"

"No, I'm not _fucking _okay with it, Dean! I don't know where the _fuck _you learnt about human emotion, but generally someone is not going to be _okay with it _when you use them to get what _you _want, and don't even stop to think how it's going to make them feel!"

Now he looked angry. "What? I di- What the hell is the matter with you? Jeez, it was just a kiss! Stop acting like I forced you into something you didn't want! We both know you wanted it, Cas."

Dean didn't seem to be getting that _that _was the problem here.

"How amazingly insightful of you. But it's your motivations that make it _not okay. _Of course I want you, but I wouldn't be getting _all_ I wanted from you, when you _would _be getting everything you wanted from me. You can't just _use _someone like that and expect them to be fine about it! You can't just… use me like that. Just because you know I can't… say no to you."

No, this was too much. He was revealing far too much. He clamped his mouth shut, forcing the flow of words to stop or he was going to end up spilling all his secrets and he'd never be able to hide again.

"Whuh?" said Dean. He looked to be somewhere on the confusion scale between _'Why is that bear riding a bicycle?' _and _'I'm seeing little ballerinas dance around your head and I don't know why but it's funny'._

Castiel would very much like that option of disappearing on the spot again.

Then Dean seemed to suddenly comprehend, his clouded eyes clearing. "Cas! Give me some fucking credit! I'm not a _complete_ asshole!" Cas flinched despite himself. "And give _yourself_ some credit too! You seriously thought the only reason I kissed you was because I thought you'd be an easy conquest? You _stupid_..."

Castiel clenched his jaw, his quickened breathing swelling his chest. "You just said it was because you saw right through me. So you took advantage."

Dean's eyes widened. "No I didn't. I really didn't say that. Is that what you- Fucking Christ, Cas. I just _told _you!"

Castiel went back over Dean's stilted speech in his head. Maybe… Maybe he'd been listening, but had only heard what he'd programmed himself to expect. Anticipated disappointment couldn't technically be disappointment, after all.

It's just _you. _It's just _you, _Cas. _(Nobody else was ever the same. Not even Anna.)_

He couldn't really have meant that. Could he?

"I don't-"

"What don't you understand? What don't you get about this, Castiel? You want me to spell it out, step by step? Because I will. I'll lock you in and explain all fucking night if you want me to."

Dean had turned in his seat to speak directly to his face, still not relinquishing the grip on his arm. The way he trailed his gaze down his body suggested more than verbal explanation was on the menu.

Castiel's mouth was hanging open. "Stop it." _Stop screwing with my head so much!_

"No." Dean's other hand came in sideways to fist in the front of his coat. There was a ripping sound. "You're going anywhere until you realise I'm not the douchebag you think I am."

"I don't… think that."

Dean's frown lifted.

"You think I don't care. You really can't see it… I thought you were supposed to be smart?" He said it like Castiel had personally betrayed him by not living up to his expectations.

Oh. That struck a chord; one of the ones at the higher end of the piano scale. Had that been a factor in all of this? Had Castiel felt hurt not just because Dean hadn't reacted how he'd expected him to (which would have been something like disgusted pity) but because he'd reacted in the one way that Castiel didn't know how to deal with? He would never have considered that turn of events in a million years; he may have imagined it, but he _never_ would have thought Dean would _actually kiss him_ like that. His motivations couldn't possibly have been dream-worthy as well as his actions – that was far too unlikely.

Castiel had idolised Dean in his head, and then interpreted his unexpected actions in such a way that had shattered that built-up image. He'd immediately jumped to conclusions, because anything else was bad; any other version except dream-Dean was the wrong one, and dream-Dean didn't exist. But maybe dream-Dean wasn't such a figment of his imagination after all.

Jesus Christ, he didn't even know what the hell was going on anymore.

"You want to know what I think of you? Okay. You're the best friend I ever had. Yeah, you were a dorky little weirdo who spoke like a college professor, but you never pretended to be anything that you weren't, and you never kicked off over the little things, even when I was trying to get a reaction out of you 'cause I was pissed with my dad, or just life in general… You didn't push Sam away because he was my annoying little brother – you treated him like you would anyone else because you _liked _him, and you didn't care that you weren't supposed to. And I don't know why I'm saying all this in the past tense because you're still all that now, apart from not kicking off about the little things…" He bobbed his head as he deliberated. "Okay, that's not fair. But I'm telling you that I think you're fucking awesome, Cas, and that you've always been awesome. And I thought the people I've hung out with _since_ you were just different-awesome, because I didn't grow up with them or something, but that wasn't it. They just weren't as fun to be around because they couldn't compete with your superior awesomeness."

Castiel was frozen to the spot, not even blinking as he watched all of these crazy words tumble out of Dean's mouth. Dean wasn't looking him in the eye any more; he was focused on his shoulder, like he honestly couldn't stop speaking but sort of wished he could.

"Like that day I was locked out, I'd been having a really shitty week – my dad was being an ass about stuff and when I rang Sam to see if he'd be back soon he went into total bitch-mode and I kind of lost it a bit. I just wanted to take a damn shower and go to sleep, but the spare key was long gone and I saw Dad had left the latch off his window so I just thought 'fuck it'. And I totally would have made it too, if you hadn't turned up being all disapproving and pouty – but then you were there in the rain and I didn't recognise your voice because you don't speak much in class and it's gotten all deep and growly-sexy since I last spoke to you. Seriously man, I kept asking you questions just to hear you talk – I'm surprised you didn't catch on. And you were making me tea and bringing me towels in that funny little patient way I'd forgotten about, and you made me feel a million times better and I missed you."

With that, the tirade finally seemed to come to an end. Dean sat there drawing in great lungfuls of air and blinking widely. "Wow. That just… came right out, didn't it?"

The pause that followed was somehow defensive, like he expected Castiel to laugh at _him. _Castiel was much too far past amazement to even perform basic functions like laughing, or thinking.

'_Impossible' _was the word that pinged into existence at the front of his brain.

He left a very long stretch of silence before testing out a response. "Are you… kidd-?"

"For fuck's sake, no I'm not kidding! I _like _you, Cas. I _really _like you. And I think maybe I always did." He was staring him in the eyes, boring sincerity right into his brain like a drill, so that Castiel couldn't get away from it.

_I think maybe I always did._ No, that wasn't fair. This had to be a joke that the universe was playing on him. Or a dream. Castiel couldn't process this; it was far too much to take in on an empty stomach and no sleep. Ah, that must be it. He'd fallen asleep in the woods and caught a fever from being out in the rain, and this was just an elaborate dream. Damn, it was going to be painful when he woke up to reality. For all sorts of reasons.

"You didn't… feel that way about me." _You've got it wrong; it was the other way around._

Dean huffed out a sigh. He'd been staring at Castiel's mouth for the last few seconds, but now he looked him in the eye again. He was still leaning right across the seat with his hands all over him; one fisted into the front of his coat, and one holding his arm, pulling it into his own chest, like he thought he was going to try and escape again. "I didn't realise at the time," he muttered. "But why else would I think I'd _dreamt _kissing you in your closet? I guess I thought the symbolism was too obvious for it to have been real. And it made me think maybe it was 'cause you were a guy, because I never felt the same about any girls I dated." He swallowed. "But then there were never any other guys that I felt this for either. So it wasn't like I had a preference or something." Castiel wondered if Dean could feel his heartbeat through his chest. It was impossible for him not to be able to. "You get what I'm saying here, right?"

_No. Absolutely not._

"I think you're hot, and I haven't stopped thinking about you all week. And god help me but I can't imagine wanting anyone else any time soon. You're different. I think it must've been the octopus hands."

Castiel studied his face for a long moment, then blinked once. The rain had eased off to a gentle pattering, so the pause was truer than ever.

"I see." He said.

And he did. At last.

"Seriously? That's your respo-"

Cas cut him off with a deep, slow kiss; letting all that heartache and useless pining burn up as fuel, using it to strengthen his determination, to leave any tentativeness far behind. It remained unhurried; hot tongues sliding past cold lips, and the taste of rainwater mixing with the taste of each other.

He eventually pulled away to find he'd slipped sideways, and one hand had made its way up to clutch the short hairs at the nape of Dean's neck. The pair of them sat and breathed the same air for a moment.

"Can't argue with that." Dean said.

The palm that rested over Castiel's heart slid down and around his side, between the layer of coat and his sensible crew-neck sweater. Castiel watched Dean's mouth a couple of inches away, from beneath eyelids he hadn't bothered to open all the way. "Mhm," he said, because he thought he was possibly supposed to be replying to something.

"I'm really glad you're on board with this, you know. Last night I thought I might have scarred you for life and you'd have to become a monk or something. And that would be a real waste. Or kinky, depending on how you think about it…"

Castiel was only half listening, contentment flaming steadily inside him, but at the mention of monks he swiftly became aware of their surroundings outside the car.

Nothing was visible beyond the steamed up windows so it was unlikely for anyone to be able to see them, but it was still a little too close to home for Castiel. This place held memories of being made to feel ashamed of something that was already painful and confusing enough; but all the same, it wasn't in him to feel spite towards old Father Matthew – he'd been trying to be kind. And Castiel didn't feel comfortable spitting that kindness back in his face, right on his doorstep.

Any moment, people could start to emerge from the church, for a lunch break or something; perhaps they'd even been waiting for the rain to stop – people that Castiel knew and didn't want to be spotted by. And this car was hardly inconspicuous.

"Why're you wearing this thing, anyway?" Dean was saying, as he slipped his other hand beneath the coat too, so both arms were wrapped securely round his middle. "It's not even waterproo- Stay there." Castiel had suddenly straightened upright and Dean's grip squeezed tighter, dragging him practically into his lap. Castiel had to support himself against the back of the seat.

"Dean- I'm not- I just think maybe we should move away from the church," he managed to force out, having to twist his head to the side to avoid various things.

"Why? You worried they'll grab the pitchforks when they see a couple of homos making out on their land?" Not quite what he'd been thinking. "You _are _freaked out about this, aren't you?"

Cas looked him steadily in the eye. "No I'm not. I'm not, Dean." It was almost funny how much he didn't care about gender, seeing as everyone else seemed to have such strict rules about it all. "It's just… I want to break things gently." He didn't want rumours to get back to his brother before he'd had a chance to talk to him; to find out what exactly he'd meant by telling Dean where he was. It was high time him and Michael let it all out. Of the closet.

Dean nodded, still frowning. "Okay, good. Good. But, erm… Just so you know, I'm kind of…" He swallowed, and Castiel watched as his jaw tightened. "I've never told anyone- I've never told my dad about this… part of me before. Just in case you're planning on shouting it from the rooftops." They both knew that wasn't going to happen.

Castiel closed the small gap between them, pressing his lips gently against Dean's frowning mouth, because he wanted to make him feel better. And he could. He was allowed. He was _allowed _to kiss him.

He was holding tightly to the tiny, fluttering piece of hope that something might have changed in Michael's attitude, but when it came down to it – even if his brother was made to feel uncomfortable or didn't approve – the only people who mattered in this were Castiel and Dean. Castiel knew that he couldn't stop this, he couldn't hold it in anymore, not now that Dean had given him something back; encouraged him that there might even be a chance for them to be equals in this.

Not that Castiel was saying Dean was in love with him or anything. That was crazy. You couldn't figure out you liked someone and then immediately fall in love; love was a long and agonizing process that lasted years before you got anything in return.

"_I can't imagine wanting anyone else any time soon." _Something popped into existence in a warm place between Castiel's lungs, building for a moment before rolling its way out of his throat as a bubble of giddy laughter. Its escape into the air was thwarted by what his mouth was busy doing, but then Dean pulled away, and the laugh got its chance to fly free.

"Oh, so _now _you see the funny side. Thanks, Cas, that's real sensitive of you."

Castiel opened his eyes, his smile immediately dropping. "I'm not laughing at you. I don't think that's funny, I was just…"

Dean levelled him with a flat look, and it said a hell of a lot. "I know."

Oh right.

"Oh."

He got it now. Why Dean had laughed. _"What are you trying to do, Cas?" What are you trying to do to me? _It was giddy disbelief; he couldn't believe it.

Castiel couldn't believe it.

He'd seen the whole thing through a filter of bitterness and warped confidence; it had built up – layer upon layer of it – as he'd watched Dean get on with his life without him; watched him make new friends; heard his name crop up time and time again in the rumour mill, usually pertaining to females at the school. Spotting him smiling from a distance and not being able to see the colour of his eyes. Everything had added up; it had all made sense – Dean was off limits, unattainable, a different person. He didn't need Castiel, and he didn't want him any more.

But Castiel just couldn't let him go.

_I missed you._

His view of things had been clouded over, but now it was like Dean had rubbed away a little section, right in the middle, just enough for Castiel to be able to peer through to the other side and see how things could be. How they really could be. In reality. Not in some fantasy that was tainted by the craving for something he thought was impossible.

But it wasn't impossible. Dean wasn't unattainable. Somehow Castiel had managed to attain him, and he was right here, holding him fast and patiently waiting for the mind cogs to stop turning.

Nothing made sense any more, and Castiel _liked _it.

Tidiness had never been his strong point.

"Are you done now? Or d'you wanna mull it over some more?"

Castiel brought his right hand round from where it had been resting on the back of Dean's neck, using his thumb to stroke down his cheekbone. Because he could do that now. He could do things like that whenever he wanted. And when he did it made Dean's breath hitch.

"No. I think I'm done now," he muttered.

* * *

_Is he done? I'm not sure whether to just finish it there. It seems a nice place to stop.  
_

_I've already started writing something from Michael's point of view, but I don't know whether to post it as a separate story, or even at all for that matter. It's turning out kind of longer than I expected… What do you guys think? Is there any question left unanswered that you especially want to be answered? Something you want to see happen or are curious about? I'd be happy to look over any suggestions. I think I enjoy being in this verse too much…_

_On a separate note, if anyone spots any mistakes or discrepancies in the plot, or something I've got muddled, a heads up would be appreciated. :)  
_

_If this does turn out to be the end, thank you to all you regulars for sticking with this! Or if you're new, thanks for being drawn in by my summary enough to click the title! But I guess you all did that... Anyway, it's been great fun for me writing this cliché-ridden, drippy sopfest, and I hope you, Reader, enjoyed yourself too.  
_


	12. Michael

**A/N:**

Well. How many months has it been? I wasn't sure if I would ever continue this but here you go! Had a bit of trouble with how to set it out, but in the end decided to chop and change with little pieces. Hope its not too jarring. Or bad.

ENJOY.

.:.

* * *

_Outside, the wind roared. Every so often a twig or damp leaf slapped against the kitchen window as a reminder that the garden was being tossed around, like a ball of string that a cat in a sadistic mood had taken a fancy to. Apart from these erratic spikes of sound, the weather remained out of mind for those safe within the walls of the house. Their attention was held instead by the voice talking gently out of the battered portable radio, and the hollow scraping and bobbing of the washing up in the sink._

_Michael stood, arms elbow deep in hot soapy water, absently planning out the next week in meals while he cleaned off the remains of the last one._

"_End of side one," said a pleasantly accented female voice. Michael glanced over his shoulder to check there were no problems with the flipping of the cassette. There weren't, of course. The little door pushed shut with a click, the play button was compressed, and then Castiel sat back in his seat at the kitchen table, retrieving his coloured pencil and setting to scribbling once again._

"_Side two. Up, and up, and up Jack climbed…"_

_Michael lifted the plate he'd just washed out of the steaming water, letting the residual suds slide lazily around the rim before propping it carefully on the already crowded wire rack to drain._

* * *

Michael was halfway through Ms Ettridge's accounts when the doorbell rang. He ignored it until he'd completed the sum in his head and could safely let the accumulated numbers drain away.

An emotion twisted sharply in his gut when he opened the door, but it wasn't surprise.

"You have to let me in. I don't care if he's told you not to."

"Dean. Hello." _A pleasure as always, _he didn't add.

The sky was a bright, pale grey above the houses beyond him, and the hedges in people's front gardens were swaying in the gale; they lent an appropriate background to Dean's stormy expression. Somehow, this felt expected, like Michael had been waiting for the doorbell to ring all morning. At least Dean was wearing footwear this time.

Something had happened yesterday, Michael knew - something that felt like the culmination of certain changes that had been occurring. Changes in his brother. This last week or so Castiel had been acting even more distant than usual, and this morning – the first time he'd left his bedroom cocoon since he got home the previous evening – it had been taken to a whole new level. It reminded Michael of the days when Gabriel would lead his little brother into the kind of mischief which invariably left him feeling guilty for days afterwards – back in the days when Castiel used to do things like that. Break the rules. Under guidance, of course.

He hadn't done anything that warranted disapproval for a very long time.

"Look. I don't know what... I just really, really need to talk to him, okay?"

"I'm afraid you've missed him."

Dean paused a moment, seeming to weigh the consequences of what he was ready to say. "If he's hiding up there I'll just go drag him out. You know it'll be good for him."

A bolt of anger shot between their locked eyes and right down into Michael's fingertips. They twitched. _Don't think you can tell me what's best... _He clenched his fists once, then let go.

"He left early this morning," Michael said through a jaw held tenser than usual. Dean narrowed his eyes.

The first time Michael had properly met the eldest Winchester son, it had also been the first time Castiel had brought any kind of friend into the house. The small person had remained silent as he slouched nonchalantly through the kitchen after his playmate, but had deigned to spare Michael a lingering look as if he was sizing him up. The impression he'd left was of a surly, cocky little boy who liked to think he was already a man.

Michael had known even then that he was emulating the attitude of his father, even if he hadn't yet discovered the details of why. He hadn't yet known about John Winchester's mysterious and frequent business trips that left his sons for nights at a time with only an indifferent babysitter to watch them, or about the amount of responsibility that had been heaped onto Dean's shoulders from a far-too-young age. But he'd recognised that tough stance, because he'd met John Winchester already; had been the first to welcome the new family to the neighbourhood.

As first impressions go, the one Michael had gotten of John wasn't as bad. The man had obviously been tired from the previous day's journey from out of state, but he made an effort to stay civil and Michael had felt like he could relate to his state of affairs – especially when he'd looked through the house and spotted the two little boys playing in an empty cardboard box, cartoons sounding in the background.

It was funny really, how you could see yourself in someone, then end up loathing that person.

Michael could still sense that old attitude in Dean, hanging around the edges. Like in the way he walked with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets – exactly the same as that coat's previous owner. But there was less of the furious indignation that had been in his expression before. His whole countenance still screamed defensive, but it was a better fit, like he was more confident in what he projected. He'd grown into his attitude. Made it his own.

From a distance, Michael had looked at Dean Winchester and seen a clone of John Winchester. But yesterday, his first close encounter with him for years (when he'd turned up on the doorstep apparently on Castiel's heels), Michael had caught a glimpse of something that had surprised him; a vulnerability that wasn't visible until you got near enough. There was something soft about Dean that Michael had never seen in his father. Something warmer. More connected, more... compassionate.

"If you're bullshitting me…" Dean said, voice low but unsure.

Michael almost tutted like an old hen. He restrained the urge. "He's not here, Dean." he said, and surprised himself with how resigned he sounded. He didn't quite like it; didn't like what it might mean. Michael made himself stand up straighter, more alert. "What did you want to speak to him about? Maybe I can pass on a message. Was it something about school?"

He knew as he said it how stupid it sounded. He _knew. _But there it was; it was part wishful thinking, part encouragement to play along, part test…

There was another pause that felt the weight of something swinging over a precipice. "No. It's not for school."

A self-conscious flicker away from eye contact, and when it eventually returned it was… changed.

Michael felt like he'd been challenged. But it was… somehow… wrapped up in a plea for help. Or was it the other way around?

Again, he wasn't surprised. This wasn't unexpected, he realised. He just couldn't tell if he was relieved or saddened to have his suspicions made stronger.

"Are you sure he's not upstairs? Where the hell's he gone this early on a Saturday?" Dean spoke with added volume, like he'd just revealed more than he'd meant to and now he wanted to take it back. Pretend they hadn't both known the meaning.

"You could try the church."

Michael closed the door, and then closed his eyes…

…and felt like he'd just relinquished his final grip on control.

.:.

A strict attitude was never something Michael had been very good at keeping. When it came to his youngest brother, at least. The other one… Well, sometimes it had been nothing but satisfying to tell Gabriel off, but he never took it completely to heart, so Michael had never felt too bad about it. Gabriel had always been his kid brother – they had the same parents and had shared the experiences that came with that – but sometimes… sometimes it was as if Castiel was more like his son. Michael felt he had a responsibility to him in a different way; an influence over him that was much more absolute, to the point where it felt like it was down to _him_ if Castiel was ever upset, or when he did something wrong. And it was harder for Michael to dish out the consequences when he did.

When everyone was younger, Gabriel had always been complaining that Castiel got away with more than he did; to an extent he was right, not that Michael ever let on. Although Gabriel was usually the one leading Castiel astray in the first place, so Michael liked to think that balanced things out. In reality, of course, it was just because he couldn't bear the look on his youngest brother's face when he knew he'd done something to disappoint him.

Once Castiel got older and learned to hide his feelings better, his guilty-face grew much less heartbreaking, which allowed Michael to get over the smitten-parent phase. Mostly. In any case, Castiel's outward control of his emotions coincided with him getting a better grasp of when it was a Bad Idea to go along with one of Gabriel's schemes, so there was barely any need to discipline him anyway.

Michael remembered that time - that short era like an oasis in his life - where they'd found a happy, manageable balance as a family. Then the Winchester's had come to town, and he'd felt control begin to slip from his grasp. Just when he'd finally managed to find it.

.:.

The heavens had opened by the time the familiar rumbling engine returned. Michael nipped over to the window in time to see his brother stumble out of the passenger door, as if he'd been shoved. He was smiling like he couldn't help it.

There was a brief burst of outside chaos; wind and rain and the door shutting, and then calm again. Not even the sound of footsteps.

Minutes passed before Castiel appeared silently in the kitchen, to find Michael back in his seat, pen in hand, like he'd never moved. Castiel's smile had long since faded. Instead he looked sheepish but defiant; uncertain but hopeful. He was mostly looking at the floor.

Michael put down his pen.

"You found each other then?"

Castiel met his gaze.

"Yes."

Michael nodded. Then swallowed. Suspicions confirmed. "I'm…happy. That you're happy."

Castiel's eyes widened, unblinking.

"_If_ you're happy?" He added, suddenly needing a sure answer.

"Yes. I mean. I am."

Michael nodded again, then retrieved his pen and pretended to continue working. He could feel his brother's gaze burning a hole in the top of his head, but he absolutely did not look up; just stared at the same string of numbers without seeing them.

He sensed, rather than heard, when Castiel had left the room. Michael sat back in his chair, exhaling through his nose and letting his eyes close.

.:.

_For the first year or so of his life, Castiel was known as "the baby". The baby stared a lot. In fact, its favourite thing to do to seemed to be to sit in its highchair (the place it couldn't roll out of/electrocute itself/choke on a stray piece of lego) and watch. Michael spent most of his time having every one of his movements followed by a curious dark blue stare. _

_That blue stare, along with the head of thick black-brown fluff, meant the baby looked nothing like Michael and Gabriel, who'd both inherited their mother's light brown hair and their father's hazel eyes. It was like someone had moulded a tiny, blobby copy of the man that had breezed into all of their lives, bringing smiles (so much more heartfelt when reflected on their mother's face) and reassurances that he wasn't here to replace their father. Of course, Michael and his mother should have taken this as a warning rather than a reassurance. Their new family member had made it clear straight away that he wasn't one to take on a dead man's responsibilities. _

_It was only later - too late - that Michael had discovered he wasn't one to take on responsibility of any sort, even when it came to his own son. At first Michael found it hard to think of the little carbon copy he'd been left with as anything but an unfair reminder of that._

_But then he'd really watched the baby smile, when he or Gabriel had done something to amuse it (intentionally or not), and Michael realised the resemblance was only at first glance._

.:.

He'd been jealous. He realised that now. Had realised it a while ago. His pride had waned as he grew older; a gradual process that had started the day Gabriel slammed the truth in his face, shortly followed by the door.

Michael had been jealous of a troubled little boy that lived next door, all because his brother – _his _little brother, who'd followed him around his whole short life – had started to be more interested in Dean's company, Dean's opinions and answers, than he was in Michael's.

After their father had died it had been the three of them - Michael, Gabriel and their mother - and the years had been tough. Then one day it was Michael, Gabriel, their mother and a new man, and they'd had to adapt fast. Things had been comfortable, if never quite settled. When their mother had died, it had become Michael, Gabriel, and the baby she'd given them in her stead. They were alone and Michael had been left _in loco parentis_. Emphasis on the _loco._

As Gabriel had gotten further in school and started to do things away from home, it had adjusted to become Gabriel, and Michael-and-Castiel. Things had stayed that way for what felt like a long time, at least in the context of a child's development. It was hard to accept when the dynamic changed again, to make it Gabriel and his life, Castiel and his life, and Michael.

Michael's life was his family, and his family was his brothers.

He'd always been one to fight for his life.

* * *

_"End of tape." Said the same female voice. There was a stretch of empty recording, and then a click._

_The big hand was past the six, which meant they had around half an hour to walk to school and wait in the playground. Michael stood behind Castiel's chair, looking over his head at the drawings spread across the tabletop. Nearly all of them involved a thick line of green pencil, twisting vertically up the paper. He watched the finishing touches being added to what might have been Jack in the giant's house, then tapped him on the shoulder._

"_Come on, time to pick up your brother."_

_There were the usual shoelace lessons which took a few minutes, and then the task of wrapping up against the gale; layers of coats and scarves and mittens (gloves for Michael) and woolly hats with earflaps (no earflaps for Michael, because adults don't wear earflaps). By the end of it, Michael still looked like a human, whereas Castiel looked more like a blob in a duffle coat. But a sensible, warm blob, ready to brave the icy outdoor world._

_And brave it they did, as one figure, once Michael had given in and lifted his brother onto his shoulders. _

_A giant roaming the earth, trying to spot a tree tall enough to climb back home._

* * *

Michael rubbed the heels of his hands into his closed eyelids, concentration utterly dried up. He opened his eyes, and found the room was less empty than when he'd closed them. Castiel had come back in, and was reaching for the cold kettle.

He didn't so much as glance across the room as he filled it and switched it on to boil, but Michael could see that his shoulders were tensed. Just like his own. The rain had crept through his coat to stain darker patches on his grey sweater, and his hair was shiny with wet, stuck up in odd spikes like he'd pushed through it with spread fingers. He could do with a haircut soon.

Michael hung his head in his hand, shaking it slightly and suppressing a smile. _You can stop that now, _he thought. But he knew it was useless. _You __**should**__ stop that now._

Castiel leaned against the counter as he waited out the stages of making tea. Michael tried to focus on the account book in front of him, tried not to stare at the young man standing in his kitchen, so he didn't know if Castiel ever directed his gaze at him. But he had the feeling that it stayed safely pointed out the window.

Slowly, the mood loosened. Awkward and tense became less so, and by the time a mug was placed on the table in front of him with a tap, things were practically relaxed. Sort of.

"Thanks." Michael said, like always.

The hand stayed on the mug until Michael looked up, into his face. Blue eyes – so familiar – were concentrated on his, searching. Michael forced himself not to look away (_he finally recognised the feeling for what it was_) even though it ached to let him see what he was looking for. Castiel blinked once when he'd found it.

"You too," he said, surprised. Happy-surprised.

Michael raised his eyebrows just slightly, and Castiel left him there, taking his own tea to another part of the house.

All of this had been a long time coming. Michael had convinced himself that it wasn't going to happen – wasn't happening – but that seemed so stupid now. Ridiculous. He could have made the choice, all those years ago, to talk to his brother, support him. Instead Michael had put all his trust in the words of those who'd lent _him_ support in hard times. Not the wrong decision exactly, just a misguided one.

It was shame, that feeling he'd finally recognised. Michael was ashamed of himself.

.:.

* * *

**A/N:**

Yayy! Things'll be awkward for a while longer, but they're on their way. *proud mama author*

Anyway. I did it. I think. Did I do it? Ok.

Couple more extras coming up! :)


	13. Sam

**.:.  
**

"There was more cake batter than the recipe told me there would be."

"Not that I'm saying all of this is anything but awesome. But fairy cakes, dude. This is the gayest thing you've ever done. And that is saying a-huh-lot."

Sam was walking slowly down the stairs, nose stuck in a very interesting book about the Arctic Circle, but not quite absorbed enough to block out the voices of his brother and Castiel coming from the living room. They'd been spending more time together over the past couple of months or so, ever since Sam had invited Cas inside the house that one time after school. By 'more time' he meant they were meeting practically every day, as oppose to meeting _never, _like before. Sam had known this would happen, and that's exactly why he gave them the push to stay on each other's radars after the mysterious Dean-locked-out-without-a-key meeting.

He remembered that day, when his brother had called on his cell and expected him to drop everything, walk halfway across town – in the _rain!_ – just so he could open the door for him. Sensibly, Sam had refused, to which Dean's response was to flip out and hang up on him. But when Sam had gotten home, after getting a lift from Andy's mom, Dean's anger had dissipated, and instead of biting his head off (or, in a perfect world, apologising) he sat waiting patiently on the front porch, his feet in a puddle and the rest of him deep in thought. He hadn't even noticed Sam until he was right in front of him, and he'd continued to have similarly odd pensive moments all week. So when Cas turned up with a forgotten shirt, Sam got an inkling what the whole thing might be about – his brother had rediscovered his only proper best friend ever.

About damn time, too. Since then, the pair of them had been spending most days getting to know each other again.

"I still can't believe you _baked me a cake._"

"It is customary to do so for someone's birthday."

Sam noticed that Castiel's voice had the faintest hint of a question in it, like maybe the rules of ages past had changed while he'd been looking the other way. He didn't seem to have clued up much over the intervening years. Sam smiled lightly without realising he was doing it, passing the threshold into the kitchen.

Hold on, Cas baked Dean a birthday cake?

"And you once said that you preferred edible gifts, because it was unlikely you wouldn't appreciate them. And you wouldn't feel obligated to retain them even if you didn't, on account of the fact they would have to be thrown away eventually."

There was a pause, in which Sam found the cake. It was on the table in the kitchen, set on a large plate smudged with dark sugary thumbprints. It was suitably manly.

"I said that?"

"Something to that effect."

It was iced in black (how did you even make black icing?) with patterns drawn in spider-web white. Sam recognised the designs as each of the band member's symbols from Zeppelin IV – Dean's most-of-the-time-favourite album – shrunken and multiplied and scattered over the top of the cake like confetti. Wow. He knew Cas was kind of artistic or something, but that was impressive.

"You're such a dork," Dean said. He might as well have been saying _I love you _by the tone of his voice.

The serving hatch in the wall between the kitchen and the living room was open, and Sam snooped through to see them sitting side-by-side on the sofa that had its back to him. Cas was in the act of stooping forwards to put something on the coffee table; Dean was turned slightly to watch him, balanced on the edge of the sofa cushion. Sam had been about to call out, tell Cas the cake looked awesome, but the look on his brother's face stopped him.

There was a profound softness smoothing his features and filling his eyes. It lasted only a moment before it constricted, pulling a hollow into the muscle of his jaw, but while it was there it was aimed directly at Castiel. It had passed by the time Cas looked back at him, like Dean had schooled his expression - like he was hiding just _how much _he enjoyed having his old friend back in his life. Maybe more than he could admit even to himself.

Sam felt absolutely certain he had just seen something he was _not _supposed to.

"You tell me that so often I'm starting to believe you," Cas said. "I suppose I'll have to accept such insults as veiled thanks."

Dean smiled then, and it had something of the same affection in there, but he was controlling it; it was nowhere near as raw. "You already got your thanks."

"Oh…" Cas sounded disappointed.

Dean rolled his eyes –

– then completely exploded reality as Sam knew it by leaning forwards so he could meet Castiel with a revealingly practised mouth-meld.

WHOA THERE.

Sam span on the spot. _Definitely not meant for his eyes._

OH. They were- With the- That really kind of- So maybe Dean wasn't hiding his feelings as fully as Sam had thought.

"You're welcome," said Cas's voice, and then the heavy-breathing-soft-slurpy-noises started up again. Sam's face pinched itself into an expression suitable for a situation where you suddenly became aware you were listening to the sounds of your brother making out with someone. Not just someone – Castiel. Dean and Cas were _necking._

He just managed to stifle a _Nyaaarrghhh!_ enough to stop it escaping via his vocal cords, and then hightailed it the heck out of there. This was not the kind of thing you could be caught spying on – however accidentally – where everyone would be able to brush it off afterwards.

_Oh god, _how long had this- He didn't want to know. Anything. He'd already got an eyeful more than he wanted; an image of close friends getting _too _close and friendly that he would probably never be able to repress.

Sam's immediate plan was to go back to his room (sans the beverage he came down to get, but that was the last thing on his mind) and lose himself in the cool of the Arctic whilst pretending any stuff that may be going on downstairs wasn't going on. But in his panic he put far too much pressure on the creaky step, the one that he really should have skipped altogether in this kind of fleeing situation. A wooden groan sounded too loud in the no-TV-or-radio tranquillity of the house.

Sam froze, face scrunched up in _ground, swallow me now _mortification.

There were a series of quiet mutterings and squidgy sofa sounds and Sam had just enough time to face the other way – down the stairs instead of up them – before Dean appeared in the doorway. His face got all excited when he saw him. "Hey, Sammy, come check this out. You won't _believe _what Cas did."

_Wanna bet?_ Sam was pretty sure he knew a hell of a lot more than Dean thought about what Cas did/had done/might do. _Bleugheleughyluh. _

There was a brief trying-to-stop-his-brain-disintegrating-like-sea-foam trance, which Sam came out of to find he'd followed his brother back into the kitchen. He was pointing at the cake and saying words. Cas was moving around on the other side of the hatch; getting to his feet and picking something up that turned out to be a Tupperware box. He'd be entering the kitchen any second, and then Sam would be trapped with the pair of people he'd just caught crossing the friend barrier.

"…_Look how awesome it is._"

Sam stepped forwards. "Wow! That's amazing!" _Real smooth, Sam. _

As soon as Castiel was in the room and near enough, he held out the Tupperware in Sam's direction, his eyes brightened by a smile. Within were a handful of little cakes, iced in the same black, but not as neatly and without any added decoration.

"Erm. No thanks, I'm okay," Sam told him. He wasn't sure he'd be able to taste/swallow anything right now. "They look really great though."

He was feeling very young, small, and out of place here. They were both much bigger than him. They always had been, but now there was something a whole lot stronger than anything that had previously made Sam the odd one out.

Not that he wanted in on it. _Oh CHRIST NO._

Speaking of odd, Dean had frozen to the spot like he'd run out of battery power, and was staring right at him. It made Sam flinch, because Holy Crap, how long had he been like that? Wait, had Sam said something to give himself away?

Cas looked at Dean with a slight frown between his eyebrows, trying to puzzle out his profile. They were practically glued shoulder-to-shoulder, which wasn't unusual, but now it _meant things._ Dean wasn't remotely touchy-feely with anyone else, excepting Sam himself, so he totally should have cottoned on before now. It had just been so right though; they'd always been like that when they were kids, so Sam had seen them and thought _'normal' _when he should have thought _'take the hint'_. His brain hadn't even gone there.

"You weren't just coming down the stairs, were you?" Dean asked him, barely un-freezing enough to speak.

Damn it. "Er… no."

Sam noticed Castiel turning back to look at him too.

"Well, shit," said Dean. He left a pause. All eye-contact swiftly ceased. "You weren't supposed to know about that."

Sam felt a twinge of annoyance. "Yeah, I guessed as much." _Why not though? _Why wasn't he supposed to know? Did they expect him to laugh? To freak out and tell everyone? Because Sam was going to go ahead and assume they were keeping this a secret from more than just him.

Dean sucked in his bottom lip and bit it, the corners of his mouth curving down. The look in his dodging eyes bordered on traumatised panic.

Sam's insides certainly felt twisty, but that was mostly to do with the way a pleasantly average scene had suddenly passed through the looking glass into a world that prompted much Younger Sibling Discomfort. He wasn't sure if he was technically freaked out though. Once the shock wore off it really did make a lot of sense.

"Am I understanding this exchange correctly?" Cas inquired. Both brothers turned to look at him. The action apparently confirmed that he was, because he shuffled a step sideways. "I think I'll…" A hand clawing around his forearm stopped his progress, and Sam's gaze was automatically drawn to it. The hand sprang away in a panic.

"Don't tell Dad."

"What? Dean-"

"Please, Sam-"

"I wasn't going to!" - _Jeez! - _"But if you don't want him to find out like I did-" An emotion passed over Dean's face. That was proper terror right there. "Then maybe don't make out where people can just walk in and see you."

Okay, turned out Sam's brain wasn't quite ready for his mouth to be saying things like that out loud. His brain squirmed as The Image popped back up in full technicolour.

"Right, I'm going now." He said, already on his way towards the door. "It's all cool and I'm fine with it… not that that really matters I guess… Yippee for you and everything... But if you don't mind, I need to find the brain bleach."

He stood on the creaky step on his way back upstairs, the need to hop over it having sailed out of the harbour (and by now into the kind of waters deep enough for undiscovered species to be hiding in). It didn't even creak. _Ugh. _

* * *

**A/N:**_  
_

Nyahaha! Kid brother Sam is the best.

I have a couple more POVs planned, which I'll probably be posting within the next couple of weeks. I'm open to suggestions/ideas, but otherwise that'll be that. :]

(P.S. Please don't spoil me for the new season! Not that you would or anything.)


	14. Gabriel

_To those of you who were expecting this sssoooo much sooner, I cannot apologise enough. I won't make excuses._

* * *

.:.

He stared at him.

It reminded him of when they were younger. Castiel would stare and stare, just reading people for signs, trying to figure them out. And Gabriel would stoop down to his level, right in his face, and make it a competition (like he ever actually had a chance of winning). He'd usually get a smile for his trouble; Castiel would lean away or shove him by the face and would stop _worrying so damn much._

But Gabriel didn't do that now, to the almost-man standing in the doorway to his own apartment (Castiel had his own apartment!). Not least because he was now the smaller of the two. The timing was wrong as well. Instead it was all… a bit weird. All odd feelings, and a swelling in his chest that was pushing a lump of emotion up his throat.

There was warmth and soft light and mouth-watering aromas telling him to come inside, come inside and take the weight off.

"Hey bro. What's cooking?"

.:.

How many years had it been since he'd seen this particular part of the world? Five? Only five birthdays. Maybe six. But it somehow felt like so much longer. Five years couldn't be long enough for a person to grow out of prepubescence, through regular pubescence, start high school, graduate high school, move out…

Weird. It felt like no time at all to Gabriel. Sure, he'd fitted a lot into his travels, but he was basically the same person he'd been when he'd last been in his hometown. Right? A few scars and the odd tattoo notwithstanding. Emphasis on the odd.

Not that he'd forgotten. Every so often, maybe if he found himself alone in a bar somewhere, blurry vision making the light through his glass glint soft and gold, and too sleep-deprived to bother picking on the old guy behind the bar, he might find himself considering what his brothers were doing. And obviously he checked sometimes to make sure one or both of them weren't dead/famous/imprisoned. But somehow it just hadn't clicked. Not properly. What he was missing out on.

Speaking of…

"Well, looky who we have here!" Gabriel plonked down on the bench, making room for himself where there wasn't any and throwing an arm around each of its occupants. "Ooh!" He gave the boy's shoulder an appreciative grope. "You been working out?"

"Oh my god."

Gabriel ignored the frankly delicious expression of shock and discomfort he'd prompted so that he could get a good look at the teenage girl under his left arm. "You're pretty cute, too. Have you found out he's a squealer yet?" She turned a delightful shade of pink that carried on under her preppy fringe. "Oh yeah. He used to make all kinds of noises when I had him on the floor-"

Gabriel's words were cut off by the sudden and unyielding hand over his mouth.

"Shut up. He's kidding Annie, don't listen to him. Gabriel let go of her, you lech."

The girl looked at him out of the corner of her eye, expression hilariously embarrassed and unsure. Gabriel did as he was told and removed his arm, but ruined the gesture by leering at her with his eyes.

"Annie, this is Gabriel. He's a _dick _that used to live next door to me. And he's going to stop his pathetic attempts at humour when I take my hand off if he doesn't want to be pulling his own fist out of his throat."

"Interesting choice of words," Gabriel said as soon as he could. "And I was _not _kidding," he said, still addressing the girl. "You should try tickling him some time. It's _very _entertaining." She raised her eyebrows, her cheeks flushing afresh.

He was rewarded with a frustrated huff from his right. "What are you doing here? Did living the high life get boring? Or have you just run out of money?"

Gabriel turned, an over-false expression of hurt fixed in place. "Aw, Sammy. No need to be cruel. That's no way to greet an old _friend. _Where are your manners in front of the lady?" He glanced to his left just enough to catch an unimpressed lip-snarl. It dropped away when he caught her in the act but her arms remained folded across her chest. "Am I alienating you?" She didn't say anything.

He found his right arm being rather carelessly lifted from its draped position before being dropped unceremoniously into his lap. "Don't call me Sammy. Have you even been home yet?"

"Wow, you used to be so much more fun. What happened to the little sunbeam I remember?"

"It grew up." _You don't say, _Gabriel began, but Sam didn't give him a chance to finish. "Seriously. You should go home. Now."

Gabriel allowed a pause, considering this familiar but _so changed_ face. It was giving him little achy feelings. He didn't know what he'd been expecting on his return, but he hadn't anticipated little _Sam Winchester _being the one to make him feel so shitty.

"Still haven't got to grips with subtlety, then? What's up? I'm sure those two can wait while we catch up," he dug into his shoulder playfully. "What they don't know can't hurt 'em."

"Him," said Sam. "_Him, _not them. It's only Michael in your house… your _old _house, now."

Gabriel felt his expression change and tried to hide it. "What do you mean?"

"Cas left for college like, last year. He doesn't live there anymore."

Which was the moment Gabriel realised how much could happen in five years, and how much he sucked as a brother. Sam and his date (Friend-date? Whatever…) had left him sitting on that park bench while it sank in.

.:.

* * *

___Everyone who reviewed the last chapter - THANK YOUUUU! I really, really appreciate every single one of you taking the time to do so, and I'm sorry I haven't been able to return the favour by replying this time. BUT YOU'RE ALL LOVELY. You give me so many warm fuzzies when you let me know what you think, and you guys who've stuck with it from the beginning - I am in awe. I want to give each of you_ _a proper squeezy hug (unless you hate hugs, in which case I want to give you a heartfelt and appreciative nod from a distance)._

_(just a little) More coming. Hopefully it won't take as long...  
_


	15. Dean I

_**A/N:** SLIGHTLY SPOILERY TRIGGER WARNING: terminal illness BUT IT ENDS HAPPILY I SWEAR. I mean it, you can trust me._

* * *

.:.

Dean had to have an addiction. He had to have some kind of craving that he could surrender to; something that he could let himself give in to. He'd never stay sane otherwise.

In the past there'd been booze or coffee or cigarettes, but right now he was addicted to something that was far more satisfying and terrifying than anything that had come before. And he couldn't stop _taking. _He'd steal touches and kisses and smiles and hoard them away like the crafty bank thief of the piece; every little flash of light was too tempting to let slip away, so he'd keep a tight hold on it, saving it all up like a magpie. It all came together to form a big glowy thing inside him. A thing that burned white hot whenever he came into contact with the source; flaring up to send supernova spikes through his heart.

It was painful. The addiction was too strong, too consuming; and it made him feel too vulnerable.

He never said it. Castiel had never voiced the feelings that were so terrifying; feelings that suggested devotion on a level that was just stupid, and hinted at the ozone tang of ferocious _truth. _But Dean could sense it; every time he stole a piece of the shiny stuff for himself, he saw more of it fill up in its place. It was relentless. Eternal. Something Dean had never asked for or done anything to deserve.

And that wasn't fair; wasn't healthy. People were supposed to figure _themselves_ out, try different things, have lots of meaningless sex, before they felt like that about someone. You didn't find your… person… soul mate?... _one _straight away. You didn't meet them when you were eight years old; before either of you had become a real person. When people _thought _they had, it always led to shotgun weddings and the unhappy couple waking up ten years later to realise they were completely different people who could no longer stand the sight of each other. Everybody knew that. Not that there was any chance of a shotgun wedding in this case. But there was still the possibility of the other thing.

Dean doubted he could make it longer than a few months with one person, let alone ten years; but even so, the idea of Cas ending up blaming him, of turning bitter because he'd thrown the best years of his life away on a naïve crush, left Dean with a hollow feeling. Castiel still thought of him as the person who'd been his childhood friend, but Dean hadn't been that boy for years. He was currently in the dragging-tail-end stages of being a teenager, and there were so many stages in between that Castiel hadn't been there to witness.

There _certainly _hadn't only been one person for Dean; and he had done things; made regrets and broken hearts, and jabbed at people's delicate shells. Castiel didn't know him like he thought he did; the guy was in love with a perception. And Dean didn't feel right taking so much from him (_You can't just use someone like that and expect them to be fine about it!_)when he was certain the real him wasn't meant to have it all.

So Dean bricked up the warm thing that had taken up residence inside his chest; hid it behind a wall so that it couldn't be torn out or taken back. Or take him over – because it never seemed to stop growing, and what if it became uncontrollable? What if Dean passed the point where he could still let go?

Without the glow from Dean's side the connection between them grew darker; Castiel grew hesitant like he had been in the beginning, and it was easy for him to accept it as truth when Dean explained how he didn't want things to get too serious; that they shouldn't bother trying the whole long distance thing. So when Castiel packed up and headed west to college, his recent freedom tightening his shoulders and filling his eyes with anguish, Dean told himself he was doing him a favour. He could go off and live his life and figure out what he wanted, and Dean could do the same here. And if in the end it turned out Dean-n-Cas the couple weren't meant to be, then that was okay. It would be totally fine with Dean if Cas discovered he wanted something different after all. Totally fine.

.:.

Dean did call him a handful of times, early on, but he didn't like how it made his palms sweat and his chest throb, and he always felt like he was interrupting his Student Lifestyle. Also Cas was really awkward at phone conversations at the best of times, and seeing as Dean's own feelings were way off the uncomfortable scale, it didn't make for easy chit-chat. So he stopped calling him altogether, repressing the stupid craving to hear his voice, however closed-off it sounded these days.

Not long after, the calls stopped from the other side too. Dean took it as a sign Cas was busy enjoying himself, and told himself that wasn't so hard to believe.

So Dean tried to do the same; which generally meant giving himself over to every single broken, beat-up car that was sent his way at the garage, and sticking with each one until there was nothing left to be fixed. A lot of the friends he'd had at school were like him, still hanging around at home – he met up with some of them a few times, but the ones he got on with best were among those that had left town, to further their educations and do body shots off sorority girls.

At Christmas when everyone came home for the holidays, next door had family over to stay – something Dean never remembered noticing before. It must have been a one off or something, but whatever the reason for it, it gave _him_ one not to go round there. He didn't think throwing Anna into the mix would do anyone any favours.

The season to be jolly was also the first time Sam saw the evidence that things weren't exactly rosy between his brother and his… Cas anymore. Sam and Michael – the brothers – were the only people that knew about them. Michael was probably happy _it_ seemed to have ended within a year of its beginning, not that Dean would know, as he hadn't laid eyes on him for months.

Sam had always been hilariously embarrassed when anything happened that hinted further than friendship; the worst of it always being when he'd put his own meaning to obscure comments that weren't even to do with Dean and Cas. He turned especially beetroot when Dad was around; something that usually stopped Dean from making fun because he was too busy doing the opposite of his brother and turning pale.

Dean hadn't told him anything when he and Cas had… broken up? He wasn't sure what to call it. But Sam had some kind of freaky ESP when it came to his older brother, so he could tell something was wrong. Although it hadn't been until Dean spent the holidays timing everything he did to avoid crossing paths with anyone from next door that his suspicions were confirmed. His response was to call Dean a scaredy-cat, denial-ridden, blind-as-a-bat _dick_, and then throw a licked-sticky candy cane at his head.

.:.

One meeting, that's all they had before Cas went back to college. And it was _right _before he went back – the car was running behind him when Dean opened the door, billowing white clouds from its exhaust into the icy January air, while its driver (Michael) waited.

His hair was long enough to brush his brow and he had on a dark winter coat, the same one he'd been wearing the previous New Year, when he'd kissed Dean as the clock struck and it felt like the snow had frozen time. All Dean wanted to do when he saw him was hug-drag him inside the house (damn going back to college) and do something non-soppy like tear off all his thermal layers and make him forget his own name. No way did he want to just hold him close and keep him there, breathing in the scent he could just barely call up from memory… (nothing sappy like that). But he wasn't supposed to be doing either of those things; it would undo all the progress. It would be selfish, and Dean was trying not to be selfish.

(_Just because I can't say no to you._)

"Here," Cas said, holding out a folded piece of notebook paper. He kept his eyes on it as Dean extended a hand. "I just thought it might be of use. Easier than a phone. In case you or Sam…" Dean unfolded the paper, softened by over-handling, to find two lines of writing in Cas's scrawl; a pair of email addresses. Why were there two?

"But mostly you."

He looked up to meet familiar blue for the first time in months, and the warm glowy thing had already filled him up before he remembered he wasn't supposed to let it. The blue turned hopeful, and it stabbed an icicle right into his chest. He had too much to say, and all of it was stuck in his throat. "Thanks," he managed. "I'll… tell Sam."

Cas looked away. "The second one is Anna's," he said, before turning around. And wasn't that a kick in the gut.

The car was already pulling away before Dean could talk himself into giving chase to untwist his collar.

.:.

The months were heating up when he bumped into Lisa and came away with a "You should drop by" invite to some sort of party. It had been a long time since he'd been to something like this, a house on the wrong side of the tracks, full of people who'd crossed them to get there; all wanting the same thing – to rebel; to rile at whatever it was they didn't want to remember. It was a familiar scene, but one which Dean saw with a newly established kind of wisdom. Too serious; too much to prove. A bunch of bratty kids. It would have been funny if he didn't know first hand how much it hurt when people laughed at you for it.

Despite this outlook, he was trying to forget too, so it was inevitable that he ended up filling his bloodstream with alcohol. "Best way to get over someone is to climb onto the next person," smirked a pair of rosebud lips. He reasoned that if it was completely different, there would be no parallels; it would be easier to treat it as something _other_. And he needed it; he _craved_ it. He had to give in or he'd lose his mind.

He'd spoken to Lisa earlier, but he was pretty sure he saw her hopping on the back of a Harley not long afterwards. He wondered if she knew this girl. This girl who was soft and warm, who moulded against the hard planes of his chest; who curved into his touch.

More space than Dean was used to – there hadn't often been the luxury of a conveniently empty house, and after Sam's discovery on Dean's eighteenth birthday (and the frightening possibilities concerning his Dad that it had brought to light), it was behind a barricade or not at all in the Winchester household – not even a touch. Next door had been different, but no less mood-killing, on account of the fact that if Michael was in the house, he _knew_. Which Dean didn't give a fuck about to be honest, but the same couldn't be said for his partner in crime. They'd started driving out into the middle of nowhere, where they could be free to lower all the barriers; the Impala's windows dripping on the inside.

So here – in this shredded, stranger's bedroom, with dulled sounds of revelry seeping through the mattress – there was more space than he was used to.

He couldn't remember her name, but she sighed softly. Her skin was soft too; her hair was long and wavy. She wasn't strong enough. Or she didn't use the strength she had. She was too willing to be submissive; wasn't greedy enough, wouldn't take it for herself.

The day of graduation Dean had found himself dragged into a stationary cupboard just before the ceremony. Kiss-swollen lips had spoken against his own (_I always wanted to do this.)_ and then their owner slid _down_, leaving Dean to huff a mortarboard tassel out of his face and stare at a box of office supplies on the shelf opposite. The 'this way up' arrow had been pointing the wrong way, which he'd found funny under the circumstances.

Later he'd watched him collect his diploma and thought about the night before, when he'd told him he was the only one he'd ever wanted.

Hands squeezed his shoulders, and they were too small; the nails too long. Dean stopped kissing her; pulled up to look at her face. Her eyelids rolled up to show a strip of blue. She had blue eyes, which he'd known from the beginning. The wrong blue.

"Whassrong, baby?" Her voice was the cooing of a bird, false; she was putting on a seductive lilt.

He rolled off her, and his head made the ceiling slide down the walls.

"Sorry. Thought I could…"

She didn't make him feel safe. And with that thought came the realisation he _wanted _to feel safe. That was serious. Right? The alcohol was making his blood hot and his head sluggish, pressing on his vision as he sat up. His hands felt like they were hovering slightly away from where they were supposed to join his wrists, so when he tried to lean them on the edge of the bed, they ended up missing and sent him into a forwards jolt.

In this state he wasn't up to maintaining the barrier that held back the glowy thing, and the cracks where it punched through to tell his intoxicated brain just what it was he was craving (_it's fucking obvious_) were excruciating.

_Smack._

Dean's mind sharpened right up when a hand slapped him brutally across the face, long nails snagging the skin just below his eye. "Screw you. I hope it drops off, jerkwad."

He was so shocked – at her spite, and at all the thoughts still fresh in his mind – that he just sat there floundering until she was almost out the door. _You don't hit women, Dean. _There was no way she didn't hear him when he hollered after her, though.

"Yeah? Back atcha, bitch!"

Sam's eyes had been all judgy the next day, when Dean had got in at noon with cat scratches puckering the shadows under his eyes.

"I know what you're doing."

"Shut the hell up, Sam."

"I know how you feel about him."

"_Shut the hell up, Sam._"

.:.

It was weeks later that Dean's cell rang while he was lying on his back under a VDub Bug, and he had to creeper-roll his way out so he could dig around in his pocket. His throat locked up when he saw the number, and for a second there he almost didn't answer it.

He left a pause between raising it to his ear and uttering a stiff "Hey."

But the voice that replied wasn't the one he'd been expecting. It also held a lot more sadness than he'd ever heard in it before, which meant it took him even longer to figure out who it belonged to. "Hey, Dean. Long time no speaky."

It was a voice from a different time, and it had matured over the years (just). "Gabriel? Why the hell have you got Cas's cell?" And why was he using it to contact Dean?

Dean re-processed his out-of-character cheerlessness and added it to the fact this was the first time Cas's other brother had shown up in more than scribbled text and holiday snaps for half a decade. The bottom of his stomach dropped out, even before Gabriel started to explain.

"It's Cas… He's…"

Four hours of gunning his baby down the highway, stretching her muscle to full power, and then Dean was asking at the front desk of the university hospital for a ward and room number, his countenance _daring _someone to mess with him. "I'm sorry, sir, visiting hours for that ward are over." Dean kept walking, and under any other circumstances would have laughed that someone had looked at him and thought 'sir'applied to this grease-smudged, tough-clad delinquent.

"_He's really sick. Hospital sick. He talks about you, but he's too much of a stubborn ass to call… thinks you wouldn't want to come. But, Dean… It's… If you want to see him… It's a matter of days…"_

How the fuck had this happened? How had this happened without him knowing about it? Gabriel said it was too sudden to bring him back home; that there hadn't been enough time before… That he'd needed the nearest medical care as soon as possible.

And where the _fuck _did the guy get off thinking he could get away with not _telling him. _Did he think he could just… That he'd just…?

There was a loud bang that made the other elevator riders look round at him in alarm. His elbow started up a steady throb where he'd thrown it back into the metal wall. Dean hated hospitals. Fucking _hated _them.

He couldn't _do _this to him. It wasn't _fair._ _Screw _him. He could fly off to the heaven he was so convinced existed and fuck himself.

He thought Dean wouldn't want to come. Had Dean really pushed him away that successfully? Or… had that bitterness he'd feared come about quicker than he'd expected? Maybe he didn't _want _to see him. Well he'd just have to deal because he wasn't getting a choice in the matter.

Oh _god, _he should have run after him. He should have _given in _and run after him to straighten his collar. And then kept him and kissed him and hidden him away, and maybe if Dean had changed the course of things, he wouldn't have gotten sick. Maybe they'd be living in one of Sam's theorised alternate realities that apparently springs up whenever you make a decision. Somewhere out there could be a Dean and Cas living happily ever after, because that Dean hadn't been a bullheaded masochist.

_Stop thinking like that. _He couldn't possibly blame himself for all of this, he had no sway over nature, but he could have _been with him. _Before. All these months, all that time wasted. _If only, if only, if only. _Lot of good it did now.

The corridor was unnervingly, softly deserted and too warm as Dean headed down it, reading the efficiently square room labels as he passed underneath them. He reached the right one, and suddenly couldn't go in. Months. It had been months. What if he _looked _sick?

Dean didn't know if… He couldn't…

Of course he fucking could.

He twisted the handle and pushed it ahead of him as he entered. One bed, against the far wall, no lights switched on. There he was, still the same, gazing out at the burnt orange sky beyond the window. His eyes were heavy, like he was drifting in an in-between state; in limbo. Between life and death.

Dean turned to close the door, leaned forwards to rest his head against the wood, back to the room. Not able to face it.

"Dean…?" Surprise, confusion. Hope. "How did you-?"

Dean scrunched his eyes closed, squeezed his hand into a fist and bumped it against the door near his head. It didn't stop the shaking. "Fuck you," he said, cutting him off. _His voice. And the rest of him, right here. _But not for long."Fuck you, Cas."

The second time it came out with less venom; it was resigned instead. _Fuck you for dying._ He let his hand slip down to hang limp at his side.

"Gabriel." Cas said, his voice low in the muffled quiet of the ward. He was answering his own question.

"Yeah. He called me." _Why didn't you?_

"I didn't want to worry you."

"_Worry me?_" Dean was taking in his remorseful expression, his even-longer hair, before he realised he'd turned around."You didn't want to _worry me? _Well, bang up job with that! News flash, Cas, I'm worried. I'm fucking…" _Distraught. _

Cas pulled himself slowly, carefully, laboriously into a more upright sitting position against the plain white hospital pillows. His skin was pale against them; the orange glow from the sunset hitting the high notes of his brow and softening the curve of his cheek. It also threw his eyes into even deeper shadows; sockets in a skull.

Dean strode over there, his legs giving out halfway through a move to sit on the bed, and reached out for his shoulders. He slipped his arms around his back, enveloping gently; not knowing what he might fracture but unable to stop himself. His fingers tangled in the ties of his hospital gown.

"I'm sorry." He was thin, and Dean could feel fragile bones. But he still fit. "I'm sorry." He kept saying it, because once wasn't enough, even though his voice choked him; aching misery twisted his mouth down at the corners. _I'm sorry I let go of you._ _Please don't leave me behind._

Cas had looped his arms around his waist, pulling him in strong as ever, but it didn't escape Dean's notice that he kept them resting low – he wouldn't be able to hold them up for long. "It's okay…"

It was not freaking okay. At all. This wasn't how things were supposed to pan out. Dean turned his face into his neck while he listened to the comfort that _he _should be giving, and breathed in. It was his first proper breath since Cas had left for college, since Dean had given him a shove to help him get there. This right here – this _Cas-ness, _even under the nauseating scent of medicine and bleached linoleum – was like oxygen to him. But the needle was dropping low on the gage. What was he supposed to do when his supply ran out for good?

"Visitors aren't supposed to be up here after nine you know."

"Watch me give a fuck." He wasn't going to leave him again for a second.

The hug squeezed tighter from both sides, and Dean could feel Cas's heart beating through his chest; a life-preserving pulse, one that he still had the power to quicken. _It's still there. _The hospital gown crinkled under Dean's clutching grip, parting to let his clammy fingers anchor to the warm skin of his back.

"Dean…?"

The glowy thing inside Dean's chest was free, burning him to nothing from the inside out. He was kidding nobody, thinking he could brick it up at will. It was _always _there.

He'd thought it was for the best, he'd thought he was setting Cas free, in some kind of proverb-y selfless act. So he could find out what he_ really_ wanted, instead of just settling for the boy who was within reaching distance next door. Turned out that was a load of bullshit. Not that he thought it was written in the stars that Cas would only live long enough for one great loveor anything. People got sick, they died. Happened all the time.

Life was short, and it was random, and it sucked.

He didn't even know what was eating up Cas's time, but instead of asking, the question that escaped instead was "How long? How long until… How long are you here for?" _How much time have I got to tell you?_

"Another day or so."

A sound permeated the air, something between a sob and a cry of pain. "How do you know? How do you know for certain?" _Stop being so damn calm!_

"The doctor told me."

One day. _One day? _He pulled back so he could search his face, incredulous. "What're you planning on doing?"

There it was – the right blue. The _right _eyes.

"I… don't know. I just thought I'd wait here. Dean, what's wrong?"

Dean was pretty sure he was on the threshold of apoplexy. "What's-? You just thought you'd _wait here? Why aren't you freaking out?_"

"I… don't know?" Cas was watching him with a look of startled concern. Dean allowed his gaze to study every part of his face, lingering to stare at the mouth set in neutral before meeting his eyes again.

"What?" He suddenly felt like he was missing half the puzzle pieces. "You- You're… You're sick."

"Yes. But I'll be allowed home in a day or so."

.:.

* * *

_**A/N:** GABRIEELLL! *shakes fist* Yeah, it got soppy again. Here, have a towel._


	16. Dean II

.:.

Appendicitis. _Appendicitis._

Gabriel had turned up at his little brother's digs out of the blue (seriously, _years _of not seeing each other), and while he was there Cas had complained about a pain in his side. It hadn't taken long before he was fully doubled over in agony, so Gabriel had rushed him into the ER for an emergency appendectomy before it got so bad that his appendix burst. _Before one of his organs burst._

"It was really lucky Gabriel had turned up, or it would have been much harder for me to get here. He might have even saved my life. If I'd gone into shock from the pain before I could get to the phone…"

But Dean was only half listening by now (partly because he _did not want those images in his head holy shit_). He couldn't hear Cas over the mantra of _not dying, not dying, not dying, fucking Gabriel that __**fucker**__, not dying, not dying, I bet he wishes he planned the whole thing, HE'S NOT DYING, are you sure though? Maybe he's just saying this to get you off his case…_

Dean lifted both hands from where they'd fallen in shock, and started yanking at Cas's hospital gown. Cas didn't stop talking, but he did look down with a perplexed expression to watch himself be forcibly undressed. "It was a standard operation, though, and I don't want to stay here any longer than I have to. I'd go home tonight but Doctor- Dean, what are you _doing?_"

He'd reached around him again to untie the fastenings (when he'd realised just tugging wasn't doing much) and had pulled the blue collar-edge all the way down his torso, leaving the icky garment crumpled on top of the sheets, still attached to Cas by his wrists. Dean pushed impatiently at it to get a clearer view of the sewn-up gash in his side.

There was a careful moment of silence, which Cas then broke by saying "I'm supposed to avoid any strenuous movement to allow it time to heal neatly." Dean realised his head was sort of swimming; the edges of his vision were blurring around like motor oil on a puddle. "It's alright, I can barely feel it." His voice was low, not needing volume to travel across the tiny space between them.

Dean's head cleared with an almost audible click. "Of course you can barely feel it, you're pumped full of drugs! That- I am going to _slaughter _that _sick bastard_!"

Cas's eyes did a flickery little confused-surprise thing that stopped Dean in his tracks for a second. "Who?"

Only a second though. "Your fucking _brother_, that's who! Where is he? Is he still at your place?"

"Gabriel?"

Of course, Cas didn't know what that _bag of dicks _had done. _Motherfucking- _Maybe Dean would make a brief detour to pick up the tire iron from the Impala on his way to-

Fuck, he didn't even know where Cas lived!

"Dean."

He'd done it on purpose of course, not knowing where Cas lived. He knew that if he'd had a set address to aim for the next step would be planning the route (more precisely than to just the college) and then he'd never have been able to stay away.

"_Dean._"

Dean stopped. He'd gotten to his feet at some point in the last few seconds and was already almost at the door.

"Why- What did he do?"

Dean looked at him across the dark room, over in the bed with the white metal frame, the drip wire buried in his forearm. He was sitting upright again, still deathly (_no not deathly_) pale.

_What the hell are you doing all the way over here? _Dean's brain asked him. Instead of answering it, he strode back over the steps he'd just taken until he ended up next to the bed. Cas stopped looking like he was expecting an answer.

Dean sat back down heavily.

They stayed like that, not looking at each other but unconsciously matching their breathing.

Wow, it seemed really stupid now. Gabriel had never actually specified… But he'd made it _sound like_…

Right? Or had Dean just invented the whole thing?

"How's college?"

He could feel Castiel's silent computer-processing face searching for clues to explain the sudden change of subject. "Varied," he said eventually.

"Varied?"

_Varied? _Varied how? Varied experiences, classes, people? Varied as in he could pick and choose now?

"Yes… Some days I enjoy the freedom and the purpose. Some days I don't and I just want to come home." He finished pulling the hospital gown back up to his shoulders, tucking his bare forearms under the sheets.

"What's it like living with…?" Dean tried to remember the name that had been mentioned all those months ago over the phone.

"It wasn't suitable. I moved out."

Something angry hid beneath Cas's hard tone. Dean's hands curled into fists in response. "How wasn't it suitable?"

"We weren't compatible."

"Why?"

"He was insincere and arrogant. And inconsiderate. And he kept eating all of my food."

Dean's mouth twitched and his fists relaxed. Cas side-eyed him like he knew what he was thinking. "How long did you last?"

"Almost six months."

"Which means it was closer to five. What about now?"

"I managed to find a flat with low enough rent to pay by myself."

Dean let that sink in for a second. "Huh. Must be pretty crappy."

The (sort of) teasing missed its mark. "It's alright. There were worse places on offer."

"Michael's helping you?" Stood to reason. Dean wondered if Cas found that annoying; like he hadn't really escaped home. Or maybe it was reassuring.

"No. I got a job."

"You… _You _got a job?" All sorts of comedic scenes popped up in Dean's imagination. He couldn't help it; a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Yes, Dean. It's a very common occurrence amongst students. Employment."

"Yeah, I've heard, I just… That's so weird. Sorry, man." He couldn't help but widen his smile at Cas's mildly indignant expression. "So which route did you pick? Store clerk? Factory worker? No wait don't tell me. Stripper?" Okay, that was a good one. Dean allowed himself a chuckle. "Has to be something you can fit around studying, right?"

The smirk on his lips died when he noticed what Cas's face was doing: a weird twisty-considering gaze into the distance. Okay, that was disconcerting.

"You're not actually a stripper are you?"

"No…"

"Okay… You don't sound certain about that _at all._"

"Technically, I've already taken my clothes off by the time they see me, so no. I'm not a stripper."

"_What._"

"Well I had to make money somehow, and this way I can even think about my studying at the same time. It's very easy. All I do is lie there until they're finished."

"_WHAT?_ Are you- Are you _fucking kidding me?_"

"I'm deadly serious. I quite enjoy it actually. It seems like a silly thing to get paid for. Do you realise you're squeezing my leg so hard it's starting to go numb?"

Dean just kept staring. Really, really intensely.

Cas met his gaze steadily. It was a long, agonising moment before his mouth curved into the corners and he looked away.

"You bastard."

Cas laughed, and Dean had to hold himself back in case of spontaneous nuzzling.

"Holy crap. You have got way better at lying." His heart was fluttering like a moth on amphetamines. That was not cool. But _was_ kind of funny. But only because it was Cas.

"I wasn't lying. I life model. Part time, of course."

There was an extended pause while Dean's brain took him through the correct processes: life model - life drawing - naked model for people to draw.

"Are you serious?"

"I get paid twenty dollars an hour to just sit there. Or lie there. Sometimes I fall asleep."

Great, now he was imagining him naked. Totally not the right time or place. Excellent.

No, actually, that _was_ excellent. That was… That was _priceless_. Cas got naked for money. So many jokes, so little time. Apart from how there was lots of time.

"I hope they appreciate the view."

There was that barely-there smirk. And all Dean could do was think about kissing it. Kissing it until it grew into a grin and then changed completely.

He thought about it until it wasn't just a thought anymore; until he was running through actions that weren't just imaginings. He was kissing Cas, and Cas was kissing back in a way that suggested not even a hint of bitterness (and maybe suggested that he'd never actually considered them broken up ever) and all the nerves in Dean's body were sparking back to life with little Frankenstein bolts of energy. White, glowy energy that spread all the way to the top of his scalp and felt like life-fuel.

If someone's addicted to something that keeps them alive, is it even an addiction at all? Isn't it just… sustenance? Something that's needed to survive? Or at least to live.

Well, whatever. It was around then that Dean decided he didn't want to do without his addiction anymore. He was too tired and strung out.

"Hey, d'you mind if we forgot about the whole giving each other space thing?"

"I would like that a lot."

"Awesome."

Dean didn't bother thinking about whether he'd have come here if he hadn't thought he'd never see him again. Not right now. That didn't mean he was going to let Gabriel off easy though. Dean was still going to fuck his shit up next time he had the opportunity, which may involve shoving his face into a table. He'd wait and see where the mood took him.

But that could wait. Would have to wait.

.:.

Until tomorrow, after that stuffy nurse found them both asleep in Cas's hospital bed (still fully clothed, Jesus, what was her problem? Well, if a hospital gown counted as clothes) and Cas had checked out and they both walked to the Impala together under the already-warm morning sun, tired-eyed and crumpled and smiling.

"You look awful." Cas said from the passenger seat. Dean looked at him while they waited to turn out of the parking lot.

"Thanks. You don't look too healthy yourself."

A gap in the stream of cars had Dean easing the car out of the junction. He'd turned right automatically, going back the way he'd arrived, but he suddenly realised he had no idea where he was going.

"Err…"

"Keep going up here, I'll tell you when to turn."

There were barely any people around; only the morning commuters in their cars, a few early-bird students and a couple of runners. The low sun, just risen from pink to yellow, glinted through the leaf-laden trees lining the street, throwing flashes of heat into the morning-cool interior of the Impala. Dean felt the shadows under his eyes like wet sandbags, weighting his eyelids and making him squint; the ache in his back and shoulders from spending most of the previous afternoon under a car, then the night contorted into a bed meant for one. He'd slept better and for longer than he had for weeks, but it almost felt like he was more exhausted for it; the sudden relaxing of the tension he'd grown used to had left him feeling droopy and slow and like he could go straight back to bed. He glanced at his companion to find out if (please) that was an option, but forgot to when he found his glance returned as a stare.

Cas held his gaze a moment, then looked out of the windscreen, like catching his eye had been his intention.

"I thought I'd have to wait longer. I'm glad."

"Wait longer for what?"

Cas levelled him a look. Dean tried to stay focused on the road.

"You never made use of that email address I gave you, but your brother did."

"What? Sam… Sam's been in contact with you since last Christmas?"

"Not that long, but we did exchange news once or twice. He helped me understand some things… He asked me to come see you."

_Meddling kids… _Dean could guess what kind of "news" Sam had been offering as his side of the exchange. It made looking at Cas uncomfortable, so he didn't. "Oh yeah?"

"But I… thought it would be better if you figured things out for yourself, however long it took. I'm glad it was only _one_ year."

Dean kept looking straight ahead, at least until Cas told him when to turn.

But he _hadn't _figured things out on his own. He'd needed a ridiculously massive shove to get him moving, and even now…

They parked in front of a permanently-padlocked garage door at the end of the street and set off to walk the rest of the way. Cas was still careful on his feet, and to be honest Dean wasn't exactly steady; it was more of a shuffle-nudge-each-other-along than a walk.

Dean pulled them to a stop just as they reached a boarded-up shop front. He wanted to say this before he had that bastard Gabriel to deal with.

"Cas… You… When you said Sam helped you understand some things…What things?"

Cas returned his gaze unabashedly, then reeled off his answer like all he'd been waiting for was the question. "He told me that you'd almost certainly broken contact with me because you wanted me to be free and unattached when I went to college. He said you thought I was only with you because I hadn't had the chance to meet anyone else, and that I'd be better off if you left me alone so that I could realise that. And although he called you a lot of things that were detrimental to your sanity and intelligence, he did assure me that you were in love with me and probably had been for at least a decade."

_Have not! _screamed a childish voice in Dean's head. But he couldn't say that on the outside; couldn't say anything. Instead his mouth opened, closed, and he turned his quickly flushing face away from the penetrating stare a matter of inches away.

He thought he saw a smile out of the corner of his eye, before Cas let him off the hook and looked away too. He wasn't sure if that made things better.

The smile was still there the next time Dean looked at him, momentarily confused out of his embarrassment when they ended up at a diner instead of an apartment. It stayed on his lips (those ones Dean couldn't wait to kiss again) as he explained that he was hungry and didn't want to go home yet. In fact, the smile stayed there all the way through breakfast, and all the way back round the corner and up the next street over, lighting up pale faces and putting sparks in tired eyes. Dean studied it and saw relief in there, happiness and a bit of surprise, and realised that it was a reaction of someone having his hopes confirmed. Because that was the first time Cas had _known. _And Dean thought maybe that would make it easier – maybe, just a little…

Maybe it might make it easier to say the words if Cas already knew the secret. Especially if the reaction they got was anything like this one. And maybe if it was, Dean might start to let himself be a little bit convinced. (Convinced of the truth.)

.:.

* * *

_**A/N:** Ugh, I know guys. I'm a bad person. I am so sorry for the last chapter.  
_

_I've had these extra POVs drafted and stashed away practically since I finished the main bulk of the story (which was about three months ago or something). I've only recently had the chance to read them back and polish them up, and even though I've really enjoyed writing this fic, it feels like it just WON'T LEAVE. This POV wasn't originally supposed to be quite so enormous, but as it's the POV of the other half of the couple, I wanted to show his thoughts/feelings in a bit more depth. The trouble with that plan was that it's Dean. So, you know, inner turmoil/ complicated guilt and self-flagellation abounds._

_Sorry if it got a bit rushed. I dunno, basically I would've liked to edit this some more, cut some of it, maybe tweak a few things/go deeper into some stuff (I've probably completely forgotten some threads I was gonna tie up) but my brain's too numb from it and I'm running out of time omg! _

_Thank you for being so patient and generally awesome. Every single little review means LOADS, and I love all of you :]  
_

_(One more to go...)_


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